


Welcome To Hell

by Maimat, Miah_Arthur



Series: Gates of Hell [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Captivity, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hell, Hell Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, List, Lucifer Is Super Tragic, Magic, Objectification, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Torture, Whump, Wings, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-11-07 13:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maimat/pseuds/Maimat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Arthur/pseuds/Miah_Arthur
Summary: First Days of Hell AU (Pt 1: The Fall). The Devil wasn't always the King of Hell. He was outcast and broken, a resource, a possession. Then Mazikeen claimed him, beginning a friendship and partnership that would last aeons.





	1. The Fall (Is It Dead Yet?)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to our beta readers: Fleem, Matchstick_Dolly, Hircine Taoist.
> 
> Thank you to our awesome artist: [ eastwesthomeisbest](https://eastwesthomeisbest.tumblr.com/)

[ ](https://eastwesthomeisbest.tumblr.com/)

# Welcome to Hell

## Chapter One

#### The Fall

### (Is It Dead Yet?)

Divinity always drew forth bursts of new growth where falling-angels lay. 

Mazikeen sat on her haunches on the crest of the crater's rim, staring. Heat rolled up the steep walls. Spores clouded the air. Great fissures in the crater’s base spurted molten sulfur, rising in fierce blue flames. Was the body already consumed? 

A wail rent the air.

It lived? She’d never seen a live one before. Movement attracted her gaze to the angel. It was half-submerged in lava. A total loss then; the angel would not last long.

It must have landed with magnificent force to make a cavity such as this. Mazikeen couldn’t see the other side through the illuminated cloud of drifting spores.

How it survived the fiery lake this long was a mystery. Her three Lilim companions stood spread out along the ridge beside her, too disappointed to even snap and snarl at each other. They had followed Mazikeen into the storm following the angel’s fall, had pushed themselves to the limit to be the first to claim the prize of the falling-angel's feathers, and they were too late. 

They watched, expecting it to sink any moment. The angel didn’t perish. A shining cord was wrapped around its body. A binding? Ash fell from the above—one knuckle deep, two knuckles—and the angel continued to thrash. 

"Vog, find a cave." He nodded and turned to obey, but Mazikeen continued. The small male needed more guidance to complete the task well. "Ensure that it is big enough for a large party and has a good spring."

After he loped off, Mazikeen turned to the more competent female warriors. "I'll get a closer look. Maybe we can retrieve it somehow. You scout the area. Ensure we have the first claim." 

They each shook off the mesmerization of watching the angel _not burn_ to attend to their assigned tasks. Mazikeen made her way down. Glowing blue lava welled around the angel, creating an expanding lake that occupied the deepest center of the crater floor. Every type of fungus she expected to see at a falling-angel landing site bloomed and grew around her. The life ring exceeded any she’d seen before. 

As she approached, the air grew hotter, drier. The excessive heat kept the ash from settling on her clothes. When she could go no further, she sat to contemplate. To pull it ashore, she’d need a hook and chain durable enough to withstand the liquid fire. The forge workers back at her home collective could craft such an item. 

Wind plucked at Mazikeen’s tunic and whipped the flames higher, setting off a new round of agonized screaming from the angel. The cries were raw and broken, and yet the bound figure remained unburnt, its flesh pale and unmarred. It was difficult to see the wings, bound as they were to its back. The feathers looked to be in poor condition, but they were unscorched by the flames. She left the angel to its suffering and made her way back to the top of the rim.

Mazikeen looked up to the above, the great swirling, ever present cloud of ash continued to churn in violent, rotating columns made by the disturbance when the angel fell, but the storms had moved on. The continuous ashfall was back to normal levels. The flakes fluttered down to pile in drifts, where they would stay until being swept up by the high winds to choke the air in their cyclical pattern. 

If the angel didn’t die soon, she’d have to send a warrior back to the collective to alert the Soverain. Dagur would go, she decided. The warrior might be young in Mazikeen's eyes, but she was Soverain Anilith's eldest, and had abundant experience outside the collective stronghold. 

Dagur and Traz returned, smirking with triumph. “We saw warriors from Soverain Melipath’s collective approaching, but we made sure they knew we were here first,” Dagur said. The short horns, expertly carved into sharp tips on the top of her head, turned bright red with excitement.

“How many did your stones strike?”

“More than a hand between us! We drew blood! They won’t be able to hide their shame,” Traz said, her sharp, protruding fangs drawing out the sibilants in her words. 

“The fungus is thickest here. Fill your packs with as much as you can for provisions. We need to inform Soverain Anilith that the angel survived and wait on her orders.”

They grumbled and growled. Warriors were never happy doing the work of mere gatherers, but they weren’t stupid enough to argue. Vog returned and informed her he found a suitable cave. She ordered him to fill his pack. 

The winds rose, and they retreated to their shelter as the poisonous ash swept into the air, reducing visibility and choking their breath. 

Once inside, Mazikeen examined the shelter Vog chose. It was large, with two chambers. One room was expansive enough to comfortably fit a large hunting party, and in the smaller, interior room, a pungent spring of sulfur water created a pool large enough to draw water from. It was a fine base. And if the angel continued to live and the vigil degraded into something more political than stones and warrior blades could handle, this would be a suitable dwelling for Soverain Anilith, ruler of their collective, to claim as a temporary residence. 

The warriors laid their hauls of fungi out to dry. Food often became scarce in large gatherings of Lilim, and it was better to build up supplies early. If the other collectives weren’t too hostile, she’d send her warriors on a hunt to further build the stores with meat.

At the start of the next ashfall, Mazikeen and her warrior party climbed the crater's rim. She expected to find the angel dead. It was quiet, but the glint of reflective binding flashed with movement. Not dead yet. 

The group of warriors from Soverain Melipath’s collective approached. Varun, the leader of the party, was Mazikeen’s brother from the same spawning of The Mother. They’d been close long ago, as young whelps struggling for food and shelter, but those days were a distant memory. Varun was a formidable opponent, and a favorite of the rare, fertile, elite Dames intent on birthing the strongest sprogs. He snarled as he drew near but kept his hands clear of his weapons. Mazikeen met him halfway.

“So it’s true? It lives?” he asked, not bothering with a more formal greeting.

“Yes.”

He scratched at the rough pale bone jutting out from his chin and looked over both their parties of warriors. Several of his fighters bore gashes from the rocks Dagur and Traz had thrown. “We concede you were first and have the feather-harvest, if you concede we have a second claim and have preferred gathering rights.”

Mazikeen snorted. First rights to the angel would be worthless if it couldn’t be dragged to shore before the flames consumed it. “This angel is different than the others we’ve claimed in the past. It lives. Everyone’s going to want to fight for their share. It’ll be better to wait and let the Soverains sort it out.”

He nodded. “Agreed. I declare blood-drought.”

A truce? Mazikeen gave him a hard look, but he seemed sincere and they were both mature enough to appreciate peace. Their equal numbers ensured they’d abide by the pact. She held out her hand. “Blood-drought!”

He clasped her arm, and they parted.

Mazikeen regrouped with her warriors. They crowded around her, eager for news and orders. “Dagur. Bring word to our Soverain, and have a chain and grappling hook forged to bring back with you. Make sure with the smithy that it will stand the intense heat of the lava long enough to haul our prize out. Vog, escort her through the pass and report back. Traz, start working on a totem worthy of Soverain Anilith. I’ll check on the angel and hold the claim on our territory.”

Mazikeen made her way to the bottom of the crater. The lava lake had risen higher. She crept as near as she dared. 

The angel’s movements were sluggish, and only the occasional cry was loud enough to reach Mazikeen’s ears. Even unconsumed by the heat and flames, it had been without water for five ashfalls. No living creature she knew of could go much longer. She trudged back to the top.

Traz showed off the symbol of their collective carved deep into the rock she’d chosen for the totem. “Is it dead yet?”

“No.”

“It looks weak. I bet it dies before the ash is three fingers deep.” Traz dug into her talisman pouch at her belt and held out three warg teeth as a wager.

Mazikeen grinned. Her trophy pouch was heavy enough to risk. “I say it dies during the winds.”

The ring of life, powered by the angel’s divinity, continued spreading out of the steep slopes of the rim. Gardens such as this were scarce, growing only at sites where divinity contaminated the ground. Even if the angel died this ashfall, the radiation of its presence would provide food for many feasts.

More collectives converged on the scene. They halted a far distance away before sending emissaries and joining the truce. In the distance even more warrior parties ventured as close as they dared, most likely belonging to small communities led by very minor but ambitious Dame leaders. Even with a truce, it was safer to stay away than to risk being overpowered and claimed as someone else's prize.

Warriors from the more powerful collectives began socializing; a festive atmosphere formed as they shared gossip and stories. Wagers flew thick and fast amid much laughter and ribald joking. 

The anguished cries from the crater grew louder, as the increasing winds began whipping up the flames, and Mazikeen wondered, again, how long the angel could endure under such circumstances. Everyone retreated to their shelters as the wind swept up the ash and made the air unbreathable. When the air calmed and the ashfall began anew, she climbed back to the top of the crater to check on the angel. Too bad, it lived; she lost her bet, but so did they all.

Dagur returned at the end of the ashfall to inform her that their Soverain Anilith was on her way, and presented the forged chain to Mazikeen with strict orders not to use it until a final decision was made for the angel’s fate. The hook and thickness of the links looked stable, and it was frustrating to not be able to test it out right away. Mazikeen estimated another three or four ashfalls before the rest of the rulers of the major collectives made their appearances and the politicking would begin in full force.

Negotiations were a waste of time. Everyone knew Lilith would have final say on what to do with the living-angel. None would dare act without the Mother, not when there were too many whispers, too many musings of prophesy. Lilith had spoken of the future when the first beasts cracked the ground. One will live, she had said. She had hinted that a living-angel would have immense power and be cherished by all of Hell.

Was this the one? Mazikeen did not know. The Lilim seemed more concerned with arranging the stage for the Mother's arrival. If the Lilim loved anything, it was a good show of pageantry and ostentation. The Soverains used the opportunity to show off their power to their greatest advantage. 

A new game started at the fiery lake. Large rocks thrown into the lava caused ripples that increased the flames. The sport became even more enticing when they saw the angel responded with increased wails and thrashing. The death-bets had grown stale with its refusal to die, so now the wagering was on who could throw the closest stones without striking it. Better yet, wrapping the stones in dried fungi before chucking them created even bigger fireballs, and special varieties combusted into great fountains of flame. It howled loud enough that the entire camp laughed when a warrior from Targrelith set off a fiery fountain directly in front of it.

When the angel’s reactions to their antics grew sluggish, they moved on to setting competitions to pass the time: feats of strength, speed, and prowess. They sent out hunting parties and compared trophies. The golden-eyed ruling class of Lilim Soverains and their lesser Dames took advantage of the blood-drought to attract as many males as they pleased, only freeing them to stagger happily back to their collective’s claimed territories when the winds slowed. Even Vog got taken once.

And yet the angel lived.

How long had it been now? The atmosphere dissolved into fights and insults. The gatherers filled their baskets of fungus and moss to the brim and returned home. Lesser collectives disappeared, not risking a potential battle if the truce broke down.

Mazikeen stayed close to the crater and kept watch over the angel, the tone of its sporadic cries begged the hunter within her for death. Even whelps would not leave a beast to suffer in agony for so long without granting it an end. Even if it remained alive and unburned by the lava, the angel would never be of use to anyone if left to the fire for eternity. It was wasteful. 

Soverain Regulith, from the most remote but fastest growing collective, arrived. By then, the angel had done nothing but writhe sluggishly for two full ashfalls, no matter what they had thrown at it. The death-betting picked up pace once more.

If all went well, Lilith would arrive soon and award Anilith possession of the angel. Only Soverain Anilith was strong enough to protect this valuable resource from starting a war between other collectives. Securing a living-angel within their collective would be invaluable. Mazikeen smiled to imagine a perpetually regrowing supply of feathers.

Mazikeen itched to have the politics done and the angel in their possession. Confident the angel would be theirs, she started planning. The angel would need care and preparation before being transported to the collective, and she’d need a better shelter to get it ready for the journey. This cave was too near the others for comfort. She knew of a shelter by the ridge that would be ideal. She ordered her warriors to ready provisions. 

After the next ashfall, Lilith appeared. 

She was alone, as she always was. Beautiful. Cold. Deadly. Her golden eyes reflected the firelight of the torches erected around them, and power pulsed around her and sent a wave of fear sweeping through the assemblage. Mazikeen smelled that several of the congregated Lilim had wet themselves. The lesser, younger Lilim were smacking their lips, baring their teeth, and ducking their heads in total submission like beaten whelps.

A deep, boiling anger was the only feeling Lilith stirred in Mazikeen. The Mother stood tall and imperious. Others may have grovelled, but Mazikeen was one of the true daughters of Lilith. She was not fertile, excluding her from joining the ruling class of powerful Soverain leaders and their Dames, but in a society of conquest and power, she was not beholden to anyone. Being free to live as she pleased was more important to her than any title could ever be. 

The three most powerful Soverains, Anilith, Melipath, and Regulith assembled with Mother. The leaders stood for only a moment at Lillith’s side before she departed, returning to seclusion as she always did. They’d all waited for hands of ashfalls for Lilith to arrive, and she stayed barely long enough to deliver her orders. 

It was as long as Lilith ever bothered to reveal herself to her children. But Mazikeen knew most of the congregated Lilim would consider the brief appearance the highlight of their existence. 

Soverain Anilith raised her fists in triumph. Melipath fumed behind her. She was one of the oldest Lilim, and notoriously ambitious. If Melipath had been the one to be granted the living angel, Mazikeen would have considered switching sides. Though she lived under the protection of Anilith’s Collective, she had no inherent obligation toward any Soverain.

Anilith summoned Mazikeen to represent their collective. “It is ours; we are to keep it alive.” 

The angel had barely moved in the last ashfall, not even shaking when splashed by the rocks. Some thought it dead, but Mazikeen knew better. The Lilim came together to watch her spin the hooked chain, throwing it out into the center of the fire lake. 

The first toss was a miss. The second came close, and the angel awakened and attempted to clutch at the hook, but it could not keep its grasp as the chain pulled. The third time she threw, the hook snagged the binding. Resistance to being pulled to shore was strong, as though an unnatural force held it in place. Other Lilim grabbed hold, using all their force to pull the line and finally it emerged, the naked form going limp as they dragged it further onto land.

She prodded it. It was breathing, but unresponsive. It’s shape matched the Lilim, as the other falling-angels did. This one was male and long-limbed. His black hair twisted into thick coils, and, like other falling-angels, displayed the same Mother-like symmetry and beauty in its features. 

Bruises and bleeding wounds marred smooth, pale skin, but he was stunning. In the lava-heated air, cool, fresh blood, oozed down his exposed flesh. There was no trace of fire damage. The wings sprouting from his back were huge, the largest of any angel Mazikeen had seen yet. Too bad most of the feathers were ragged and bent, but the few that remained undamaged glowed with divinity. 

Mazikeen unhooked the chain and passed it to another. Despite the struggle to bring him ashore, the angel was light, confirming her suspicions that an unknown power had held him in place.

Everyone wanted a closer look at the living-angel now that they’d fished him from the fire. The Lilim crowded around, watching and waiting for it to reawaken. One bold warrior had the gaul to reach toward the wing with a huge, clawed knife, intent on stealing a feather.

Mazikeen leapt between them, snarling a warning. “No one touches him. He belongs to Soverain Anilith.”

The Lilim backed off, growling at Mazikeen’s favored role. Mazikeen examined the angel’s wings with disappointment; whatever had happened to him before he fell from the above had taken its toll. In captivity, hopefully he would regrow the precious feathers in a quantity that would meet everyone's needs and expectations.

The binding held strong. Though it was only a thin golden cord, it had worn deep during his struggles, digging into his flesh. Despite all his struggles in the fiery lake, he’d not been able to free himself, but for Mazikeen, all it took was a light tug on the loop around the wings and it fell loose. The divine power within the cord made her fingertips tingle. With the help of Traz and Dagur, she extended the limbs and treated the wounds with a healing salve. 

And all the while the angel remained unconscious, the only sign of life the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. 

Mazikeen tested the limbs, feeling weaknesses in several of the bones between the joints. The worst was a long bone on the right, bent near the base. Together, they snapped the misaligned bone into place. The angel groaned and writhed at the handling, but he didn’t wake.

They folded the wings against his back and wrapped the magical cord around him once more when they finished their inspection. If he had power, she did not want to risk an escape attempt. She could deal with the rest of his wounds after moving him to the shelter on the other side of the ridge. 

As they were about to lift him, the angel stirred. He moved his head side to side, taking in the assembled Lilim. He writhed and twisted against the bindings, but they tightened with his every move.

Excited whispers began. The angel looked to the above, made a warbling screech, and spasmed, back arching off the ground. A sound like nothing she’d ever heard burst from his mouth: it began low and built until the surrounding rocks shook. 

To the shock and horror of everyone assembled, fire engulfed the angel’s body. Flames danced over his skin, flesh blistering before her eyes, blackening and peeling back to reveal the dark red exposed tissue of what lay beneath. Mazikeen feared the vibration of the angel’s screams would bring the rim of the crater crashing in on them.

_“It’s on fire!” “Throw it back in!” “Impossible!” “How does it burn now and not in the lava?” “The feathers will burn away!” _and more clamor rose around them.

In desperation, Mazikeen grabbed at the angel’s torso, searching for the source of the burning. Flames licked her hand, but no heat touched her. The angel was cool even while the blaze consumed him. The dark hair on top of his head turned to ash, and his face charred and scaled back, leaving exposed muscle and bone. Even his eyes ignited from within.

Then it stopped, and he lay motionless, only his eyes open and glowing red with an inner flame. His skin and hair had melted away, leaving red and raw hide, healed into twisted, pitted, and ridged scar tissue. The wings remained as they had been, the few intact feathers still perfect and powerful with divinity. Mazikeen tapped his cheek and shook him. His eyes drifted shut.

The faces around her displayed varying levels of fear and trepidation.

Soverain Anilith had watched the angel transform from afar and regarded the sight with anger. “Mazikeen, did it die?”

“He lives. Only his outward appearance has changed; the wings remain intact,” Mazikeen called back.

The Soverains huddled together. The remaining warriors stood frozen, enthralled by the spectacle they’d just witnessed. When the Soverains split apart, Anilith said, “Its appearance is of no consequence. I will keep it alive in whatever form it wears. The trophy is mine. However, for such a prize The Mother's Journey will be re-enacted in a Trophy March.”

Melipath, dissatisfied with allowing Anilith to speak for all of them, jostled her way to the forefront. "One warrior from each of the three largest collectives will escort the beast from the Swathe to Anilith's borders. Varun, son of The Mother, will represent me."

"Ovtig, my best warrior, will represent me," Regulith announced without stepping forward. 

Elbows were thrown and knowing leers traded among the other contingents. Regulith might be Soverain of the fastest growing collective, but she had not attracted a single true daughter, or even a son, of Lilith. All of her subjects were Lilim-born.

Anilith glared at the other two for interrupting her. "Mazikeen, daughter of Lilith, will represent my collective."

After much bickering and negotiating of details, the angel was at last hoisted on a litter for the move.


	2. First Impression

[ ](https://eastwesthomeisbest.tumblr.com/)

“Here’s fine,” Mazikeen declared. She lowered her end of the litter beside the empty fire pit.

The other Lilim, Traz, let the bone handle drop with a jarring clatter. "We can trail you. Make sure none of those bootless ash-lickers try anything."

The angel remained still and unconscious. The shallow rise and fall of his chest the only indication he survived. Now it was Mazikeen’s job to ensure he stayed that way. 

Mazikeen eyed her companions. Dagur stood by the entrance pretending not to hear. Vog nodded vigorously, expression vacant like a typical male. The standards must have been extra slack the cycle he made warrior. Traz had gained favor in Anilith's eyes during the blood-drought, and she carried herself with a new cockiness that irritated Mazikeen. The way Traz had been sucking up to Anilith during the vigil was the standard technique to curry favor into power...if Anilith didn't tire of her and send her into exile or banish her to a cavern cell to rot.

Mazikeen hated politics, but she knew how important it was to follow ritual in these cases. The collectives existed in an uneasy tolerance, and skirmishes and all out wars broke out over petty differences all the time. Ceremonies like the Sacred March were vital for balancing tensions.

Raising her voice, to be sure Dagur couldn't claim she hadn't heard, Mazikeen said, "And what would that make us? Interfering in a ceremonial march is forbidden. Guard Soverain Anilith’s return, her procession is more vulnerable than we are from other Lilim. Few would dare risk the curse that comes with violating a ritual."

A Sacred March was ceremonial and thus overruled common sense. The custom was to form a small procession of warriors from rival collectives, to demonstrate the bond of kinship among the Lilim. It symbolized The Mother’s Journey. _Back in the time of the great curse, three beasts escorted Mother across the sulfur plains to seek refuge in the caves. Those were the beasts, so it was said, with whom she birthed the Lilim._ To recreate such a pact among rivals represented the great alliance... Blah blah blah. 

Warriors from opposing collectives were forced to cooperate and not kill each other. Great in theory, a pain in the ass in practice. 

Mazikeen shook her head. It was a stupid and reckless gamble to transport a wild, injured beast with only three warriors to defend it. Lilith hadn’t specified how the angel should reach Anilith’s Collective. The Soverains lived in the luxury of their elite spires and tended to forget what the outerlands beyond the collective strongholds were like. 

She regretted seeing her fellow warriors depart, but with begrudging grumbles they accepted Mazikeen's order to join Anilith’s guard and filed out. 

Just inside the outer door flap, one of the chosen Sacred March companions, Ovtig of Regulith, loomed. She looked past Mazikeen, to the cavern where the angel lay, eager for a closer look. 

She was a large Lilim, a head taller than Mazikeen with clawed, scaly hands. “Be ready. We’ll depart as soon as the winds calm,” she declared, her tone commanding.

“We’ll depart when the angel is ready to travel and not a heartbeat sooner. Do not cross this threshold again. Out,” Mazikeen ordered. Ovtig snarled, but spun away. The door flap fell back into place as Ovtig exited. 

Alone at last, Mazikeen tied tight knots to hold the covering in place over the door, keeping out the blowing ash of the coming winds. As Anilith's representative, Mazikeen was in charge of the angel until she deemed him healthy enough to withstand the journey. She had demanded the rivals who would be accompanying her on the march home occupy a separate shelter, and after much wrangling, the Soverains had consented. It would be easier to handle the angel on her own. 

The shelter was dark and cool, and a stack of provisions lined the wall to the left. Mazikeen knelt to examine the angel bound on the floor. The burns had healed into mottled scars over his body and he looked very different from the other angels she’d seen. The bumpy, reddish skin felt supple and soft—as a hide should. Strange how he had burned only after being pulled from the fiery lake, and how the mysterious, cold, fire consumed his body but not his wings. She smoothed one of the broken feathers and jerked away as the angel awoke and thrashed against the bindings. The cord was a mystery, barely more than a ribbon, with no knot she could discern, yet it held him securely.

The bindings tightened each time the angel twisted and struggled, only to ease as he stilled. It should have been easy for the creature to escape such a trap, but the cord held on with deceptive intent. Power worked within it.

“Shh,” she placed her hand flat on the angel’s shoulder and he recoiled from the touch. “Stay calm and this will be much easier on you.” She prodded at the wounds caused by the cord with her other hand. He thrashed and strained against her efforts.

She pressed hard against his shoulder and growled. “Keep still, angel.” His wounds needed to get treated and sealed with resin. The smell of blood risked attracting predators.

He heard her, but there was no comprehension in his expression. The struggles continued with renewed vigor. Mazikeen grasped both his arms, pinning him to the ground until he stilled, sides heaving and eyes roaming wildly.

Mazikeen hoped to tame the angel enough to walk on a lead rather than to have to bind and carry him. “Good, good,” she spoke calmly. Even beasts without language responded to tone. 

The angel opened his mouth and a torrent of flowing, high-pitched melodic sounds filled the air. She’d never heard an angel before, and it was different from the honks and screeches of the hell-beasts she was familiar with. He attempted to wriggle out from her hold, but she kept her grip on his arms steady and firm, letting him spend his energy until he succumbed to exhaustion. 

That was better. Only then did Mazikeen give an experimental tug on the binding cord. At her touch, the cord loosened as it had earlier to release his wings. Another tug and the loop around one arm slackened and came free. 

He clawed at the restraint with his free hand and the struggle caused the cord to tighten around the rest of his frame until he whimpered and let his arm fall to the floor. Even with one arm free, the length that bound him would not release its hold. When he stilled, the cord slackened. It was a clever device, diabolical in its application. She waited and observed. He tried, again and again to get free, his distressed expression sharpening with each tug and twist of the rope.

Did he know he couldn’t free himself from the bindings? A clever beast might reserve its energy once it realized there was no escape from a trap. After a brief rest, his struggles renewed. Either he wasn’t clever, or he was very stubborn.

He made more of the warbling sounds, this time with a hard edge. His grotesque features pulled into angry lines, but the anger melted into something else—despair, maybe—as his struggles slowed. Mazikeen had played this game with beasts before. Give it a taste of freedom before taking it away. Instill helplessness. A helpless beast was easier to tame.

Something prickled within her at the thought. She didn’t _want_ this creature’s spirit broken. 

She shook the feeling away. He was not hers to command. He would be used as a resource, feather-harvested, and dangled before the other collectives as a bargaining tool. It would be a mercy to break his spirit now, while he was weak, rather than let it linger for Anilith’s handlers to brutalize out of him later. 

After all, Mother’s decree was that he live, not that he be kept happy.

Now that he’d calmed, Mazikeen unwound the binding further. The angel froze, even his breathing muted, but tension thrummed through his body. The angel’s eyes remained unfocused, but though they did not fix on any of their surroundings, he seemed to follow the sound of her movement.

With one last tug, the entire length of the cord unraveled and fell away. If he panicked or tried to attack or run, she’d be ready. 

He didn’t move other than to draw in a deep breath. She patted his shoulder, and he slowly raised his arm. The pads of his fingers caressed the back of her hand in a way that felt disturbingly intimate, and Mazikeen recoiled.

The angel dropped his hand back to his side. He struggled into a sitting position and braced himself on the floor. The strange sounds flowed from his mouth, his calls rising and falling in strange rhythms.

He stopped, took a breath, and resumed his song. 

She wondered if the noises meant anything to others of his kind, like the mating calls and warning growls of the warg. Finally she covered his mouth to make him stop. “Shush.”

He quieted at her touch and she pulled her hand away. His eyes bothered her, not their appearance, but the way they remained unfocused was unsettling. She waved her hand in front of his face. No reaction. She snapped her fingers. He flinched. 

Well.

The angel was blind. Inconvenient, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t need his eyes. He lived, and his feathers were intact. The rest was irrelevant. 

Now that he was unbound, he needed water and food. She picked up a waterskin, filled it with fresh water, and brought it back.

“Drink.”

He only tilted his head, failing to understand. Sightless, right. She picked up his arm and placed the waterskin against his hand. His fingers closed around the container and he brought it closer to his nose and sniffed at it. She pushed it up to his face and tilted, spilling water over his lips until he drank. At first, he gagged and spat, but eventually tilted the container up on his own, drinking nearly the entire thing in thirsty gulps.

More ridiculous sounds flowed forth. Noisy creature, wasn’t he? She placed her hand over his mouth while making a shushing sound and he stopped. Good. Even better if he stayed quiet. The other Lilim warriors would be far less patient with a noisy beast along the trail.

“Are you hungry?” she asked and looked back at her supplies. There was plenty of dried and powdered scalding ooze fungus, a food disdained by all but young spawn Lilim, but it was easy to prepare. She lit a fire with her striker and bundles of dried moss, and heated water in a pot to make porridge.

As soon as the flames ignited, he turned toward the fire, his gaze steady for the first time. Could he see it? 

Yes, his gaze became focused in the light. Dark blindness happened rarely with Lilim spawn. He started looking around the shelter, his attention now on her. With effort, the angel rose to his feet and walked on unsteady legs until he was at her side, copying her posture to kneel as she did.

The angel reached out to her and...froze, his breath quickening as he stared at his own scarred flesh. He brought both hands before his eyes, unable to tear his gaze away. 

His fiery red eyes held more expression than she thought possible in anything other than Lilim-kind. He leaned over the pot of water at the fire and peered into the reflective surface.

In a flash of movement, he knocked over the pot and backed away. Mazikeen stood, ready to defend herself, but he was entirely focused on himself. His hands ran over the scars on his face, the bald head, and Mazikeen realized he hadn’t known his skin had changed. 

Perhaps there was a chance to calm him. Mazikeen reached out as she had when he was bound, placing her hand on his shoulder, but he broke away, staggering across the room into the far corner. With great gasps and wailing calls, he dropped to the rough floor, curling up like a cave beetle. One trembling, ragged-looking wing fluffed out as a protective shelter over his naked body, and there he stayed.

The uneasy feeling from earlier returned. He knew he looked different than he should. The angel was self-aware. 

Mazikeen shuddered at the thought of the Mother’s prediction of a powerful and cherished living-angel. Powerful? Cherished? She looked at the incoherent wreck in the corner with contempt. This pathetic creature hadn’t had the power to free himself from the binding cord. He couldn’t even speak. And, worse yet, he was _male_. 

A male with such influence was a ridiculous idea. Physically, Lilim males were as capable as females and they made fine hunters and warriors, but they were never favored. Most of them were more suited for tasks like moss and fungus gathering; simple chores that required less of them mentally. They were the only ones with dispositions meek enough to mind Lilim sprogs and spawn. No Lilim female, and certainly not Mother, would ever stoop so low.

Surely, the living-angel should be more impressive than this? Mazikeen sniffed contemptuously. If this one died, would one more worthy fall to take his place? She clenched her fists, wishing this was not so complicated. This beast was here now, and her job was to keep him alive.

Deeply unsettled, she looked back at the pot of water he’d spilled. She needed to clean that up and feed him. Knowing her next action calmed her mind. Her concern was to get the angel to Anilith in one piece. With luck, this outburst would pass and she’d be able to continue preparing him for the journey ahead.

She poured more water into the pot and set it to boil as she watched the angel from the corner of her eye. He hadn’t moved since he’d collapsed there, and she dared hope that was the end of his fit. 

The outer door flaps shook. The winds had risen. Whatever happened now, there would be no leaving the shelter until the wind settled and the ashfall began anew. 

Mazikeen mixed the scalding ooze in the boiling water and stirred until it congealed into a thick paste. When it finished, she took a bowl to him, holding it out of reach should he get the urge to knock things over. 

He didn’t stir. Mazikeen placed the bowl aside and prodded at him. “Wake up! You need to eat.” It was ridiculous to speak to him as if he were Lilim, but at least no one was there to see her foolishness.

His wing twitched and retracted, revealing his face. Mazikeen grasped his arm and pulled him into a sitting position. The fight was out of him. He sat hunched, his hands in his lap, eyes locked on his own red hide. He showed no readiness to attack or bite. 

“Eat.”

He looked from the bowl to her.

Did he not understand what food was? Even a beast should understand food.

“Eat,” she said and dipped her fingers in the porridge and brought them to her mouth. Was this what nest minders had to do to make the newborn Lilim sprogs eat? She plastered on a toothy smile to encourage him.

The angel pressed against the wall, more horrified than before. 

She backed off and pointed from the bowl to him. He tentatively reached out and drew the bowl closer.

“Good, good,” Mazikeen nodded approvingly as first tasted, and then started scooping globs of the porridge into his mouth with his fingers. So he was dim, but teachable. He devoured the meal with as much desperation as he had the water, scraping the bowl clean before she took it away.

More nonsensical chattering issued forth. Mazikeen turned back to the angel and rolled her eyes. She placed her hand over his mouth and shushed him. What would it take to teach him to be silent? 

He brushed her hand away and rubbed at his forehead. Mazikeen reached forward again when he opened his mouth, but he stopped. After several repetitions, his shoulders drooped, and he warbled a low hum before he turned back toward the fire.

Now that he was fed and watered; she needed to check his wounds. She reached out and tapped his arm; he glanced at her and scooted sideways to put more space between them. She grabbed him firmly and lifted his arm to inspect the damage. 

He glared and his eyes flashed a low glow of flame, but he didn’t pull away. Yet. 

The scarred and pitted texture of his skin made identifying wounds a challenge. She prodded at the areas she suspected needed attention and discovered the damaged areas looked swollen and glossy. Most of the injuries weren’t bleeding, but all open wounds required sealing against the toxic ash particles. Contamination with ash would cause wounds to fester and take much longer to heal. 

“Stay,” she said, and stood up. He moved to follow, and she pushed back on his shoulder he sat. “Stay,” she repeated, backing off a step. He watched her with a frown and rose to one knee. “No. Stay.” 

He made another strange warbling sound as she walked away from him. Was she only imagining his noises had a purpose? Petulant, complaining whelps were just as whiney. When she looked back, he stared at her and cocked his head to the side, waiting for a response. 

She rolled her eyes and went to get the salve.

“You’re going to sit and be good and not bite or scratch,” Mazikeen instructed as she opened the jar. A pungent odor wafted up and filled the room. Even she had to steady her expression not to give away her initial revulsion.

The angel retreated from the foul smell, but Mazikeen caught his ankle before he could get far. “Stay.”

He recognized the word and settled, watching her warily. Mazikeen dipped her fingers into the salve, and her fingertips went numb from the medicinal fungi mixture. With exaggerated care, she showed him the slimy glob. He made a disgusted face and pulled his arm away. 

“No.” She tugged his arm back towards her. “This would be easier if you could understand me.” Hitting him would be of no value. Long ago, Mazikeen had tamed a warg to follow her. The giant, fur-covered beast had been a powerful ally to have on the sulfur fields. That had been long before taking up with Anilith’s Collective. Most Lilim didn’t grasp the concept of using beasts or how to tame them. Beasts didn’t appreciate the value of physical punishment like young Lilim whelps, who responded to a good thrashing by learning their lesson.

He let out a quick exhale of breath. Mazikeen looked at him with her eyes narrowed. He looked back with equally narrowed eyes, watching her as she brought the goop closer to his skin. 

He tensed, hissing in a breath when she touched him, but he relaxed as the mixture started to kick in. Twisting his arm, he poked at the wound before glancing back at her. She held the salve out of reach as he grabbed for the jar. He relented, but grinned and offered his arm. He eagerly pointed to new spots for her to treat. Mazikeen’s heart pounded. It was too much like whelps showing off their ‘battle scars’ and begging for attention after an ashfall of sparring.

There was a moment of tension when she reached to check his wing, running her hand along the boney ridge there, but after a few agitated starts and stops, he settled. The area that had felt broken earlier was swollen and the angel flinched away when she prodded at it, but the bone still felt to be in place. She worked in a bit of the salve to the skin at the base of his feathers there, just for the numbing properties, and though she felt the limb tremble under her care, the angel sighed quietly as she rubbed it in. 

Mazikeen had to stop letting him affect her. He wasn’t a whelp. He wasn’t even a Lilim. He was a beast. This was her job. If she started thinking of him as more than a beast, she risked getting attached. Her assignment was to deliver him to her collective, nothing more. 

After she’d treated the wounds, the tension in the angel’s posture relaxed and he sat in front of the fire flicking pieces of gravel from his palm into the coals. Mazikeen examined the stocked supplies. Before beginning their journey, he would need to be clothed. Beast he may be, but he seemed Lilim-like in structure. He wouldn’t need anything as complex as her own full warrior regalia, which included a decorated tunic cinched with a belt, a clout, and leggings with sturdy boots that kept the ash away from her feet. For the angel, a simple chiton would suffice. The single, draped garment in the style of the lowest-ranked Lilim was more than adequate for a prisoner.

Accommodating his wings while leaving his arms free for binding would take careful arrangement. She chose a long supple piece of hide.

“Feel this,” she said, showing him the soft leather.

He ran his hand over it, pinching and rubbing. He blinked with confusion and trilled melodically. She took his hand and tugged him up to his feet. He swayed in place and yawned, his song forgotten. She pressed against him to pull the leather around his back and under the wing joints. He squirmed but didn't resist. The leather was brought up around the front and clasped at the top of his left shoulder. She tied a strap around his waist to keep it from billowing open like a cape and stepped away to judge her handiwork. He tugged on the material, plucking at it, and looked at her with a confused expression.

Mazikeen sighed. His skin wasn’t roughened to the elements and now that he was well away from the fiery lake, he was cool to the touch. How did he not understand clothes? She sat and motioned for him to join her. He slumped forward, resting his arms on his knees. On impulse, Mazikeen pulled out a thinner and softer piece from the provisions. These wraps were difficult to come by, and expensive trade items. It wasn’t her intent to spoil him with luxuries he’d never see again, but if he was cool sitting by the fire, he’d freeze on the trail. He watched her with half-lidded eyes as she bundled each foot for warmth, leaving his big toe exposed for the sandal laces.

After feeling the foot wraps, he sighed with contentment and leaned into her side. She allowed the contact and watched as his eyes began drifting shut, his head tipping forward until he jolted upright, struggling to stay awake. Against her better judgment, Mazikeen shook out her bedroll. “You can sleep here. Just for now.” She pointed at the mat. He shifted onto the softer surface.

“Go on, lie down.” She poked at his shoulder. 

He started with the noises and she lifted her hand to stop him, but this time he caught her midway. With an exaggerated sigh, he placed his own hand over his mouth and lay down. 

Mazikeen grinned. Good. The faster the angel learned, the better. 

The next item of clothing was the most important. He needed solid foot coverings. There were scraps of thick hide big enough to shape into sandals for his feet. After a rest, she’d make them. There was plenty of time, since he was far too weak to risk travel the next ashfall. 

The angel sprawled across her bedroll taking up the entire space. She nudged him with her foot. He only flopped to his side without waking. Mazikeen crawled over him and shoved with her entire body, but the action only molded his form to hers. Fine, whatever, it was just one rest. For now, they could share. Besides, it was the easiest way to keep track of him and sleep at the same time.

She woke to fingers touching her hair. The angel drew his hand along the side of her head, trailing strands through his fingers. She let him continue. When she brought her arm up and touched his hand, he jerked away as though slapped. He retreated, crouching defensively, mouth pressed into a thin line and body coiled up with tension.

Skittish, wasn’t he?

In an effort not to play into his anxiety, she ignored him, got up, brushed herself off, and started on breakfast: more powdered ooze. His tension eased as soon as she had the fire lit to heat the water. She’d forgotten he was blind in the total darkness. He crept back to the bedroll with a look she’d call embarrassed if he were Lilim.

She refilled the waterskin, and said, “Drink.” His hand came up to accept it. “Yes, good!” 

Mazikeen scooped the ooze porridge into a bowl and held it out. She wanted him to learn to let her know when he was hungry or thirsty. Living-angels were a new and foreign beast, and she didn’t know how often he needed basics. He licked his lips and swallowed, looking from the food to her. She shook the bowl under his nose, then sat it between them. 

He hesitated but took the chance to grab the bowl. Mazikeen caught his arm before he could retreat across the room. 

“Stay, eat.” Mazikeen patted the bedroll next to her. He wavered but settled beside her, focused entirely on the food and eating every last drop of it. 

When he finished eating, she traced the outline of his feet onto the rawhide, and he chattered at her with his weird calls. He snatched the hide from her, rubbed it, sniffed it, even licked it. He thrust it back at her after licking it, warbling and making pitiful faces until she handed him the waterskin. When she opened her roll of tools, he picked up each of them, examining everything with interest. His innocent delight in the mundane objects and tasks confused her. This living-angel was the strangest beast she’d ever encountered. Rather than be annoyed, Mazikeen indulged his odd behaviour, despite the delay of needing to retrieve her tools from his grasp. Finally, he grew bored and his focus shifted to the fire. 

Before she finished cutting the first sole, he curled up on his side, one arm tucked under his head, and his eyes drifted shut. It came as no surprise that he needed time to sleep and recuperate.

The ashfalls of waiting for a decision as he screamed and writhed in the fire haunted her thoughts. 

Why had the angel been bound as he plummeted from the above? Had he been flung down with the intent? The binding, and how it tethered him to remain trapped in the midst of the fiery lake hinted at intelligent design. Did another angel cause this or were there more monstrous, powerful creatures in the above? If Mother had not ordered the angel’s removal from the lava, how long would he have survived, immersed and suffering within the intense blue flames?

Torture wasn’t an uncommon tactic used against enemies, and the Lilim were well-practiced in methodologies to break an opponent’s will and mind. He hadn’t burned, but the screams had been real. 

What had the angel done to deserve such a harsh punishment? And what kind of sadist had ordered it?

She was lacing the second sandal when she glanced at him. Her breath caught in her throat. He’d stretched out his arm, extending his hand over the fire and holding it in place. His eyes glowed, and his jaw was clenched tight, mouth grimaced in pain, yet even as his arm trembled, he held it in place and watched the flames lick over him. 

“NO!” Mazikeen tossed the sandal to the side and grabbed the angel’s shoulder and yanked him back. There was no resistance to her handling, he flopped onto his back and lay slack beneath her. 

His arm. 

She expected blisters or blackened, burned skin…but his red hide hadn’t changed. Was she inspecting the wrong arm? She pulled at his other hand, comparing the two. Perhaps the angle had only made it look like his hand was within the flames? No. She trusted her own eyes, had recognized the look of pain as he held his arm over the fire, and yet his skin was cool to the touch. 

She released him and stood up, stepping backward. What did this mean? 

The angel stumbled onto his feet, and high-pitched, rhythmic but sharp calls tumbled from his mouth. He directed his rant upwards, addressing the ceiling of the shelter, eyes still ignited from within. His wings flared and snapped the air as he paced back and forth.

Mazikeen kept her distance, transfixed on the display of anger and frustration before her. He had magnificent potential for violence, and with the right handling she suspected he’d make a fierce hunting companion. The urge to keep him for herself was tantalizing. 

It was a shame he was destined for other things. 

His voice faltered and broke, the sudden burst of energy dissipated, leaving the angel looking weary and haggard. He returned to sit by the fire, fixated on the flames once more. 

Mazikeen joined him, sitting so close their shoulders brushed together. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, but he didn’t pull away. “You’re immune to fire, but not the pain it causes,” she whispered and inspected his arm yet again. He looked to her and with his other hand he reached up to touch the corrupted side of her face. Only Mother possessed the beauty of symmetry, her Lilim children were all beast-marked in their own way. 

He stared at her and brushed the back of his fingers along her distorted cheek and sighed. 

They sat together for a long time. Outfitting him for the journey was the next step, but she had patience enough to give him a chance to recuperate. A gurgling rumble sounded from his stomach. He touched her arm and looked from her to the bowl, and she dished out some more of the ooze porridge for him to eat. That he had the awareness and ability to request food when he wanted, didn’t help settle her thoughts. 

He lounged on her bedroll as the calm of the ashfall ended and the winds grew strong outside again, marking the end of another cycle. If she did not know what awaited him, she’d keep him here for another hand of ashfalls. As it was, it would wise to just focus on her duty and be done with the whole affair as soon as possible. The angel wasn’t her problem. They’d start the walk to Anilith’s Collective at the beginning of the next ashfall. 

She woke to the angel wrapped around her, his nose pressed to the join of her neck and shoulder and his arm across her stomach. His muscles tightened for a heartbeat when she tried to move him. This time when she rose from the sleeping mat, he did not retreat. He remained still as she lit the fire. After there was light for him to see by, he began exploring his surroundings with more energy than he’d shown the ashfall before. 

He padded around the cave, inspecting the walls, prodding at the orange slurry fungus, startling and regaling her with calls when a beetle scuttled away from him. Mazikeen set a pot to boil and packed her bag with extra water and several packets of the powdered scalding ooze she’d been feeding him. He found the door flap and prodded at it.

“No,” she said ready to stop him if he continued. 

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he looked between her and the door, but he let his hand drop away and returned to her side. He sat beside her and held up his hand with an expectant look. She smiled. He was an easy beast to train. She gave him the waterskin, and he smiled in return. The porridge was ready, so she set it aside to cool.

Now for the sandals. If they were to make good time, the angel needed hard foot coverings. Kneeling, she tugged on his foot to get him to lift it. He chirped—an amused sound—but cooperated. She placed the hardened leather against the sole of his foot and wound the leather lace between his toes and around his heel. His trilling sounded less amused as she tied the second one, but he allowed it. She pulled him forward a step to try them out. He kicked them off.

Mazikeen growled low in her throat in annoyance. He gave a weary sigh but offered no resistance as she replaced the sandals and tied the knots tighter this time. He stepped forward as she pulled on him, lifting his foot too high and tripping on the first step. With an agitated warble, he kicked them off again. Mazikeen took a breath. The angel cooperated in lifting his feet, but trilled at her in his weird melodic tones the entire time. That was enough. Uncomfortable as it may be, she looped the string around his foot and ankle, there would be no kicking them off this time. 

He continued protesting in his weird trills and warbles. 

“Shush,” she said and drew him forward.

He tried kicking them off, and she blocked it with her leg. “No.” He tried again, and she blocked him. “_No_!” He refused to move, but she gave a quick yank to pull him off balance, forcing him forward.

He only stepped forward to keep from falling, his toes curling as he got stubborn. “Come on, you can do it,” she urged and tugged harder. This time he walked. She led him around the room, getting him used to the feel of the sandal under his foot.

Another long string of sounds began and Mazikeen sighed. Did he ever stop?

“No! Shush!” she ordered. He quieted but exhaled a long forceful breath from his nose. “No more noises.” How could she make him understand? 

Once she was sure he’d stay quiet, she tugged on him to sit.

“You don’t sound Lilim, and when we’re out on the trail, those ridiculous noises you make will attract every beast within hearing distance. And you’re not the one who will have to fight them off, are you?” she scolded. He looked as blank as ever. 

How could she help him understand the need to be quiet? Mazikeen held out her hand, fingers curled, except the index and middle, forming a little hand-Lilim. It wasn’t easy to mimic his noises, but she tried, “Blalalalala,” the hand representing the Lilim trotted across the air. With her other hand, she made a clawing motion and growled, and wrapped her palm around the finger-Lilim as though eating it whole before letting her hand fall flat to her knee. “See?

He snorted and started to laugh.

She stared, alarmed by his reaction. Beasts don’t laugh. “This isn’t funny. We have to get you to the collective without attracting every predator along the way.” It was useless, wasn’t it? Why was she even trying when it was obvious he didn’t understand? It had been hard enough fitting him with sandals. How would he react to being gagged?

He stopped laughing when he looked at her face. He sobered and brought his own hand up to cover his mouth.

Or maybe he did understand.

Mazikeen nudged the bowl of porridge. “Eat.”

He looked at her, his strangely expressive face showing worry, but he snatched the bowl and hurriedly ate the entire bowl of porridge. Did angels always need to eat so often, or was this desperate hunger a sign of starvation? He didn’t look starved. Just another mystery to the growing mountain of questions she couldn’t answer.

Nothing she did would prepare the angel for the ashfall ahead. 

The temptation to keep the angel for herself and cast out on her own was enticing. Traveling with her warg, with no politics to drag her down, had been good times. The warg was long dead, but now she could have an angel. He had at least minimal awareness. He was strong; trainable.

Anything would be better for the angel than what Anilith had planned for him, but if she defied the Soverain now she’d be outcast, hunted, and left to die. The living-angel had been given to Anilith by Mother herself. Her part in this was to deliver him to Anilith. No one said she had to approve. The angel watched her with a wary look at odds with the casual trust he’d shown when he’d woken up.

Mazikeen snuffed out the fire, leaving the angel blind. It would be better if he didn’t see this coming.

He tried to follow her movements by sound, but she moved silently and picked up the cord that had bound him in the lake. The move would have to be fast. The last thing she wanted was to have to call the others in to restrain the angel while she bound him.

She stepped closer and brushed her hand against the his arm. He flinched but didn’t back off. He was used to her now, unsuspecting. She wanted to keep this as calm as possible. 

She trailed her hand down his arm, wrapping her fingers lightly around his wrist, increasing the pressure until she knew she had a firm hold. With her other hand she encircled his wrist with the cord, pulling taut as she reached for his other wrist to do the same. It didn’t go well. The fact he couldn’t see helped, but he moved fast.

The angel pulled back, but she’d already bound the cord to one wrist and he couldn’t wrestle it away. She yanked and used her leg to swipe his feet out from under him to pin him on his back. He grunted in pain as pressure was placed on his injured wing, and she grabbed his other arm and bound his wrists together in front of him. 

He bucked her off and scrambled backward, regaining his feet before tripping over the sandals and falling. He kicked, trying to dislodge the foot covers. The sounds he made were higher-pitched than before. Distressed. He strained against the bindings on his wrists to no avail. The binding was secure and she let it tighten against him in his struggles, only giving it a yank now and then to demonstrate that she held the other end. Other than that she left him to his tantrum and waited. He’d give up, eventually.

If he refused to cooperate, she’d be forced to bind his ankles and use the litter. It would be easier on them if he walked on his own. She used the time to strap on her armor, and wrap her own boots and tie them in place. The angel stopped actively struggling, but from the tension she could see in his posture, she knew the fight wasn’t out of him yet. An experimental tug on the biding cord was all she needed to fire him up again. 

He twisted and pulled, hard, but she resisted, resulting in a tug of war. This was not a battle of wills she was willing to lose. She stood next to him, mindful of his legs in case he kicked, and yanked him up by the arm. He resisted. She dragged him to his feet. He stood but dragged his feet to dislodge the sandals. 

“No,” she snarled, and kicked at the side of his leg to make him stop fussing. 

He made more noise. Short, sharp, angry tones, but his eyes told another tale, one of betrayal. She swallowed. Attributing Lilim concepts to him was a waste of time. He was just another beast unused to being led. No beast accepted harnessing the first time. 

He turned his head away to dislodge her hand when she covered his mouth, but she held on. The sooner she taught him who was in charge the better. The others would not tolerate defiance. “Shush.”

It didn’t matter how long it took, it was necessary to assert her control before leading him outside to meet the others. She tightened her hold on the cord, holding him firm, and growled low and long. 

One more attempt was made to fight her off, but he was injured and weakened from his ordeal in the fiery lake. Mazikeen remained unyielding until exhaustion settled him. The angel began to falter in his resistance, and finally submitted. 

She didn’t trust it. This beast held too much verve to be this easily subdued, and she knew to stay on guard. He obeyed, but his eyes glowing with dim red flame. Oh, he was angry, but she’d asserted her dominance for now. 

Mazikeen tugged him forward by the cord binding his wrists. He stumbled, but he moved.

Getting him moving was half the battle. It was time to leave. The other Lilim were waiting outside. Mazikeen untied the door flap and pulled the angel out of the shelter.


	3. The Journey

[ ](https://eastwesthomeisbest.tumblr.com/)

A hush came over the group as Mazikeen emerged with her charge.

Ovtig of the Regulith collective stood too close to the door, attempting to appear uninterested as she waved her hand at the angel. “What about the litter?”

Mazikeen instantly disliked the warrior. Her stance, her attitude. Mazikeen's instincts screamed at her not to trust this warrior. She stepped between the angel and Ovtig.

“Do you want to be the one carrying him?” Mazikeen growled, swiping her arm against the ridiculous arm-length spike sticking from the chest of Ovtig's beetle shell armor. “The angel has legs. Carry the litter yourself. If we need it, we’ll use it, otherwise, why waste the effort?”

Ovtig wasn’t taking the hint, and Mazikeen felt her annoyance building into outright anger. Ovtig wasn’t powerful enough to disrespect Mazikeen so overtly. Mazikeen leaned in closer with no further hint at subtlety, forcing Ovtig to take a step. “The living-angel belongs to Soverain Anilith. Back off.”

The angel frowned and looked from one Lilim to the next with no understanding as they spoke. But he squared his shoulders and didn’t cower or snivel. Mazikeen felt a stab of pride. The living-angel had backbone to him.

Varun stepped forward, scrutinizing the angel’s red hide and ragged wings with a scornful look. “A lot of bother for a creature so underwhelming.”

Mazikeen grinned. She knew the words were a bluff. Varun’s Soverain wanted the angel for herself just as much as anyone else. She needled her brother. “We of Anilith’s Collective are proud The Mother has trusted us to bear the burden of this task.”

Varun grunted and stepped closer. “Does it bite? Have claws?”

Mazikeen trusted Varun not to damage the prize, no matter how jealous. “Care to find out?”

Varun smirked back, and Mazikeen stepped aside to give him room. She wondered what the angel would do. He hadn’t been violent yet, but this was a good opportunity to test his limits. She wrapped the end of the binding cord around her own wrist, ready to hold him steady if needed.

The angel frowned as the Lilim stepped forward, and glanced toward Mazikeen, but she refused to acknowledge him. Just as Varun reached forward, the angel’s wings unfurled in a gust of wind that swirled ash through the air. He stood, wings extended aggressively, legs planted wide.

Varun nearly tripped over himself stumbling backward, and Mazikeen guffawed. “He didn’t even have to touch you.” 

Despite the ridicule, Varun laughed along with her. “I was hoping for claws,” he said, and swung his travel bag over his shoulder and started off.

Ovtig regarded it all suspiciously and fell into pace at the rear. That left Mazikeen guiding the angel. She hesitated a moment before touching him, but the wings only twitched and folded up at his back. She tugged his arm. “Come on, time to move.” He shook his feet with annoyance at the sandals but stepped forward.

Half a finger’s depth of ash later, an unfamiliar Lilim barely older than a whelp approached from the side of the path, Mazikeen recognised her as a Dame by the intense golden color of her eyes. She scurried up beside Mazikeen. Varun had already passed and ignored her. Dames were of the rare fertile ruling-class females; they didn’t train as warriors, but even born with an elite status, the youth was little threat away from her collective. Their power lay in manipulation and political maneuvering within the collective spires. Alone, she was less than nothing.

“Go home,” Mazikeen growled, expecting the Dame to turn and hurry off. 

But the young Lilim stood her ground and placed her hands on her hips with determination. “My name is Izuden, and I want to travel with you.” 

“We’ve already got a purpose. Be gone.” 

Undeterred, the Dame continued following them. 

Mazikeen scowled. “Are you an outcast?”

“No! I’m just— I’m from Soverain Vunnalith’s collective.”

“Vunnalith? I’ve never heard of her.” 

The young Lilim reddened and looked away. “We’re a small collective on the rift.”

“Wasn’t that Soverain Geislith’s collective?”

“Until someone poisoned her.” Izuden kept her gaze averted. “I was birthed by Soverain Geislith, and I was much favored by her.” 

“What are you doing here?”

She turned back to Mazikeen; her gaze fierce. “I will not serve the Dame who murdered my Soverain by means so cowardly as poison.” She spat into the ash. Then she glanced at Varun's trail and her expression turned hungry. “I wanted to travel. Where else would I find the greatest warriors of the realm together to ensure I have a safe journey?”

Mazikeen rolled her eyes at the rapid shifts in mood. It was so typical of the very young Dames. Unlike the whelps who would one day have to earn their keep, the Dames didn’t have brattiness beaten out of them from a young age. “So, you’re looking for a mate.”

“Soverain Vunnalith claimed the one I was interested in as her own,” she said, proper Lilim temper creeping into her voice. Then she shrugged, attempting nonchalance, even as she kept her gaze toward Varun. “I wouldn’t be averse to finding a replacement.”

“Like who? Varun?” Mazikeen laughed. He was the only male of the party, but Mazikeen doubted that he’d lower himself to being taken as a mate by such a low-ranked Dame.

“Do you think he’d be interested?”

She chuckled. “Well, you’re the only Dame here.” To show the young Lilim exactly who would be in charge, and it certainly wouldn’t be a low-ranking Dame with no collective to her name, Mazikeen agreed on one condition. “Fine then, carry my bag, and I’ll consider speaking on your behalf.” At least the younger Lilim could be useful.

The angel eyed the newcomer warily, and moved to the opposite side of Mazikeen, rather than be caught between. 

They fell into a comfortable walking pace. The angel’s steps were steady, and though he remained bound, Mazikeen only needed to keep a loose hold of the cord binding him.

Izuden proved to be a decent travel companion, sharing the gossip of her collective in the form of amusing stories.

“...and so Soverain Geislith found the male she’d chosen, naked and bootless and in the middle of the central square, getting ridden by the youngest Dame, and brought them both back to her chambers, and that’s where they stayed for the next three ashfalls!”

Mazikeen nearly folded forward laughing. She missed the antics of the lesser collectives where the intrigue and avarice were more entertaining than malicious.

“Do you think your Soverain Anilith might accept a new Dame to her spire this cycle?”

Mazikeen smirked, surprised the young Dame had been willing to hold off the request for so long. “Who am I to say one way or the other?”

“You’re esteemed. They chose you to take charge of the living-angel even though you are your own Lilim, because of your great acclaim.” 

She laughed at the blatant flattery. “I'm not interested in politics.”

The angel stumbled and fell to one knee. Mazikeen stopped and waited for him to right himself.

Izuden looked down on him struggling to get back on his feet. “It’s weak,” she observed.

Mazikeen shrugged. “For now. Have you ever handled beasts?”

“No. Males usually take that burden.”

Mazikeen dismissed the thinly veiled disdain in Izuden’s tone as she tugged the angel forward. “Beasts have their uses. Anyway, it’s his wings that are valuable to us, not his strength.”

Izuden lowered her gaze; even one so young and from such a small collective knew of the power in harvested angel feathers. 

They made it only a few more steps before the angel stumbled again, landing on his knees on the gravel path. He attempted to stand but only fell again. 

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t think he’s used to walking. He needs rest.” She left the angel where he knelt and helped the young Lilim with the travel bags, impressed that the youth hadn’t complained about the weight of the burden. “Why don’t you run ahead and let Varun know we’re stopping?”

The sudden grin and renewed energy as the Dame bolted off made Mazikeen chuckle. Varun would be hard-pressed to avoid that one.

“Up you get.” She wrapped an arm under the angel’s shoulder and helped get him back up. She steered him to the side of the path and let him sit, leaning against a rock. He sighed, stretching out his legs and leaning back, and then started shifting his feet to toe-off his sandals.

“Stop that. Leave them on,” Mazikeen said, as she flicked his ankle. He glared at her, and raised his wrists, looked at her, looked at the binding, and then looked at her again. 

“Nope, I’m not taking that off you either,” she informed him.

“Why do you talk to it?” Ovtig asked, catching up. She sauntered past where the angel was sitting and kicked a dusting of ash at him as she passed.

Mazikeen scowled at the other warrior. “Keep your boot to yourself unless you’re ready to lose the foot inside it.”

Ovtig laughed. “You should beat it until it no longer looks at us with contempt.”

The angel was giving Ovtig obvious stink eye. Fortunately, Varun arrived at that moment with Izuden slinking beside like a feline stalking prey. 

Mazikeen busied herself with her waterskin and took a drink before passing it to the angel.

He accepted it; grip awkward with his bound hands.

“Izuden tells me the angel collapsed?” Varun asked. 

“He needs a rest, you’d be worse off than this if you spent as long as he did in the fiery lake,” Mazikeen teased, and pulled out the folded packet of powdered ooze fungus to toss to the male Lilim.

A collective groan went through the others. Izuden made a face. “Gross. Why the ooze fungus? Don’t you have salted meat?”

“This is a waste of time,” Ovtig grumbled and stood up, unwinding a thick leather lash made from the tail of a basilisk. “Scalding ooze is for nestlings who haven’t sharpened their teeth. I’ll be back with fresh meat.” She stood and trotted off among the rock outcroppings. 

“The porridge is filling and easy on the stomach,” Mazikeen explained. “Izuden, there’s plenty of dried moss down the ravine for a fire.”

Izuden nodded and hopped up to follow the order. Mazikeen waited for her to be out of earshot before turning to Varun. “Any signs of trouble?”

He continued unpacking the cooking supplies for their meal as he gave his report. “I spotted what could be an exile lurking to the south. Possibly a lone hunter. In other circumstances I’d hunt them, find the answer, but… As it is, we must keep a close eye.” 

Mazikeen agreed. The sport of killing exiles was of low priority compared to transporting the angel to the collective. “I’ll check. Watch him for me. Don’t let him take the sandals off and don’t hit him.”

Varun grumbled, but reached over and took the length of binding from Mazikeen when she handed it to him. “If I can’t hit it, how am I supposed to make it obey?”

“He understands the word ‘no’. Do what you need to if he tries to escape.” 

Mazikeen ran up the path where Varun had been scouting. She found a vantage point to climb and surveyed the surrounding area. She saw no sign of other Lilim, neither exile nor hunter, but she trusted Varun’s assessment. If he said there was a reason to be wary, it was better to heed his warning.

Izuden had returned and Varun had a fire started and a pot of boiling water. The young Dame crouched in front of the angel. Mazikeen paused, regarding the Dame suspiciously.

“Problems?”

“The sounds he makes, have you listened to them?”

“I prefer not to.”

“The sounds blend in strange ways.”

“So?”

Izuden continued gazing at the angel’s face. “It's as if he’s trying to say something.”

“Beasts don’t talk. Varun, I told you not to let him kick his sandals off.” Did she have to do everything herself?

“He didn’t listen to the verbal command, and you said I couldn’t hit him. How was I supposed to make him stop?” 

Izuden moved aside as Mazikeen crouched to inspect the angel’s feet. How did any adult creature have such tender skin? Even with sandals, blisters and sores covered his soles.

The rough lava stones underneath the ash would shred his feet. How could she make him understand that the foot covering was for his own good? She grabbed his ankle and pushed the sandal back in place. He jerked his leg away.

“No.” She grabbed his ankle again, tighter this time.

He pulled away, hard enough to break her hold and started the lilting noises again.

Frustration filled her at his disobedience, doubly so to have the beast defy her in front of Varun and Izuden.

The melodic tones continued, and she pressed her hand over his mouth with enough force to knock his head against the rock behind him. “Shush. No more of that.”

The angel slapped her hand away from his face and stomped the ground in frustration. “No! No, shush.” 

The words were ill formed and strange coming from the beast’s mouth, but Mazikeen froze and looked at Izuden. “Did you hear that?”

Izuden nodded, looking dumbstruck. Varun stopped his task of preparing food.

Mazikeen chewed her lip. The angel was just mimicking sound. He couldn’t speak. Lilim were alone in that talent. 

As if to prove her wrong, the angel repeated himself. “No. Shush.”

His eyes were intense and focused. His posture screamed tension. Mazikeen licked her lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Izuden, back away. Quietly.”

The young Lilim wisely obeyed.

Mazikeen held the end of the binding cord so tightly her knuckles were white. Only Lilim had the power to speak, lesser creatures made noise, but never deliberate words. 

Even the smartest beasts were just beasts. What kind of creatures were angels?

“No, shush,” he repeated and drew up his knees and rested his forehead against his bound hands. Exhausted rather than aggressive.

A light tug on the binding drew his attention, and he looked up at her. 

Mazikeen took carefully controlled breaths as she leaned forward. She brushed her fingers against his arm. He jerked away from her, but she followed, keeping the contact steady. She needed to regain control of the situation. The tension in his arm eased, but his eyes were full of suspicion. 

It was time to offer a truce.

“Drink?” she asked.

He reached out, though his fingers trembled.

She passed him the waterskin. He took it and drank and held it out again to give back. Mazikeen took it from his hand.

“Can you understand me?”

He clenched his fists and swallowed thickly. “M-maysee...”

“My name? Are you trying to say my name? Mazikeen,” she said with excitement, and then, one syllable at a time: “Ma-zi-keen.” She grabbed his hand and thumped his fist against her chest for emphasis. 

He stilled. She repeated herself.

The angel made a grumbling noise, but he tried again. “May-zee-”

“Maz-i-keen.” She repeated.

“Maze...” he said and grinned, then he reached out and grabbed her hand and pressed it against his chest and he said...something. Back again with the strange flowing tones, he shook his head a moment and took a breath. “Sa-ma-el.”

Was that a word? “Sam-a-el?” she asked. 

He squeezed her fingers with excitement and pressed his hands against her. “Maze,” he said, and then brought her hand to his chest. “Samael.”

“That’s your name? Samael?” she asked.

“Samael,” he repeated, smiling. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak again. 

Intent on this new development, Mazikeen didn’t see Ovtig return from her hunt until it was too late. 

The large Lilim female stood to the side, fuming. “I’ll not stand to have that beast violate the Lilim tongue!” Ovtig growled and bashed the back of the angel—Samael’s—head, knocking him onto his side.

The angel’s eyes flashed with red flame and he rose to his feet and twisted, the force of the movement pulling the binding from Mazikeen’s grasp with ease. His wings snapped forward with a gust of air so forceful it slammed Ovtig to the ground. 

Ovtig lay where she fell.

Mazikeen snatched the end of the binding cord and yanked, pulling him to the side and off balance. The flames in his eyes grew brighter, and the wings spread wide again. 

In one smooth motion, she kicked out with her leg and swept the angel’s feet out from under him. He flipped onto his back and she leaned forward with her knee over his sternum. He bucked, dislodging her. She tackled him, knocking him back into the ash, before he could regain his balance. With a flick of her wrist, she trapped his feet with the cord and then pressed her knee into his chest again.

“Stay,” she ordered, voice harsh. 

He thrashed, trying to unseat her, but she had taken his leverage. The bindings tightened until blood welled on his wrists as he fought against them. Even as she held him pinned to the ground, he looked at Ovtig while making a noisy show of resistance. His eyes lit with flames again. She leaned harder into his chest. “No!”

He turned his glare to her. Mazikeen appreciated his obstinacy, and in any other circumstance, she would nurture and use that temperament to benefit them both. But he’d attacked a fellow Lilim warrior; an offence that couldn’t go unpunished.

Ovtig was back on her feet, fuming, her lash in hand, ready to retaliate.

“It attacked me. Let me deal with it!” Ovtig yelled, arm up and ready to use the whip.

Ovtig had the right of vengeance. “You hit him first. It was retaliation,” Mazikeen countered. 

It didn’t absolve the angel’s attack, but if she proved her dominance, it might protect him from Ovtig’s idea of justice. If he resisted her again, this would not end well.

She yanked him up and twisted. He resisted the handling with his wings, extending them to push her off, but she used his injuries against him. Focusing on his right side where the bone was injured, she grabbed the limb and yanked. He flinched away from the sudden pain and she took advantage of his weakness to loop the binding cord around his wings. 

His eyes flamed brighter and his muscles tensed against the cord, but it cinched tighter and Mazikeen kept her grip. 

She could not allow Samael to use his wings as a weapon again.

Mazikeen gripped the back of his neck, forcing him down, face-first, into the ash. 

Ovtig sauntered toward them, letting her whip drag along the ground until she stood directly over the angel. She made a sound of disgust and snapped the whip against the ground ricocheting ash into the angel’s face and his eyes snapped shut. She smirked as she looked down on him. “He is not to look me in the face.”

“It is done,” Mazikeen agreed. 

Ovtig swaggered back to her kill and began butchering it. 

Light flared in the angel’s eyes; the flame still bright within them. She yanked him upright on his knees and gripped his chin, tilting his head up to look her in the eye. Ash dusted his face, but the fire in his eyes flashed at her defiantly. She stared at him the way she would stare down any beast who dared challenge her. 

He did not look away. 

Izuden edged closer to Varun, her eyes locked on the drama unfolding, and stumbled over a rock. She squawked, and Varun jumped to catch her. The angel’s eyes darted to her. Mazikeen tightened her grip on his chin and said, “No!” He jerked his head and grumbled, but she didn’t release him until he stilled, his sides heaving with short, angry breaths.

Izuden simpered behind Mazikeen, no doubt fawning over Varun for maximum appeal. 

The angel sagged in her grip, the fire in his eyes fading. His gaze fell, and she understood that just as he was not a beast, this was not the first time someone put him to shame. He knew how to simulate submission, even if it wasn’t genuinely felt.

“Stay,” she growled again, keeping her voice firm. She could still sense resistance hidden behind his apparent submission. This pride and defiance would not serve him well in Anilith’s care. Remaining bound and on his knees while the warriors ate would serve as a needed lesson in humility.

Varun returned to making the porridge as though nothing had happened. Izuden pressed against Varun’s back, but stared at the angel, unable to look away. Ovtig settled beside the cooking fire and impaled a rat on a spike to hold over the flame.

Mazikeen set aside the porridge and accepted a hind leg of rat while the angel’s food cooled. Only then did she reflect on the connection they’d made before Ovtig interfered. 

It may have been mimicry, but he’d said her name, and he had told her his: Samael. 

Beasts didn’t speak, and beasts don’t name themselves.

This was the first living-angel she’d ever encountered. The implications were unsettling. 

Mazikeen finished her rat leg. The angel hadn’t moved since she’d ordered him to stay. Had that been enough to settle him? She couldn’t afford any more incidents along the path. 

Varun, Ovtig, and Izuden started a game of riddles. Izuden had pressed herself against Varun’s side. Mazikeen shook her head. The silly Dame would mount him right here in the open if he’d let her. 

Mazikeen mixed extra water into the porridge, thinning it to a drinkable slurry. She picked up the bowl and returned to the angel’s side. He didn’t raise his head when she approached, but his eyes still glowed with a low flame. She knelt and wiped the ash off the angel’s face. He remained still; his lips pressed tightly together, only flinching when her fingers brushed near his eyes.

Confident that none of the others were listening, she leaned close to the angel.

“Samael?”

His breath stalled, and he glanced up.

Mazikeen nodded. “Eat.” She held up the bowl, and he glanced from it to her, and opened his hands where his wrists remained trapped against his chest. She loosened the binding, allowing him to move his arms, though his wrists remained bound. He accepted the bowl, his eyes dimming as he watched her and drank his thinned porridge. 

He dared a glance toward the other Lilim, and she caught his chin, facing him back toward her. “No.” She cupped her hand at the side of his face, blocking his view of Ovtig. “No,” she repeated, and he looked back at her.

He shifted his shoulders, and his wings twitched at his back as the binding held firm. It was fascinating to see the cord shift as he moved, holding him tighter every time he tested it. His eyes grew bright again in a quick flash before calming once more. 

As much as she needed him to cooperate, she couldn’t help but feel pleased the spark of rebellion was still awake inside him. 

Varun cleaned up their temporary rest site. They’d have to get moving again soon if they wanted to get to the next shelter before the winds started. Mazikeen released the binding on the angel’s feet, then retrieved his sandals and pulled him up. 

After being forced to kneel for so long, the skin on his knees was scraped and raw. She held up the sandal. He hesitated but then raised his foot and placed it where she indicated, allowing her to tie it into place. He wobbled when he lifted his other foot, the bound wings trying to extend for balance, but only causing the binding to compress. Mazikeen grabbed his elbow and held on until he was steady. His expression softened, the angry lines smoothing.

He let her tie the other sandal on without hassle. The rest of the ashfall passed quickly as they fell back into the routine of walking. Bound as he was, the angel had a more difficult time traversing the rough terrain, but Mazikeen walked at his side, a hand on his arm to keep him steady. He kept his head down and made no further attempts at talking.

The wind was just starting to pick up when they reached the shelter.

She led the angel inside and to the innermost corner of the room. His legs were shaking, and he nearly collapsed before she guided him to the floor. The angel had marched without complaint or challenge since the mid-ashfall break, not showing his level of exhaustion on the path. He possessed strength. It was a shame what lay in store for him, and she lamented his intended fate. He squirmed, adjusting his position and grimaced as the confinement of the cord contorted his wings. 

She touched his shoulder and took the risk of removing the cord from his wings and wrists. As before, it only took a slight tug to unravel it from his body. She wound it around his wrists, leaving ample slack between his arms.

He sighed with relief, stretching out his arms and groaning as he extended his wings, holding them outstretched for only a moment before drawing them back close to his body.

“Drink,” Mazikeen said, and the angel licked his lips. He raised his hand but didn’t reach for the waterskin. After a flash of confusion, Mazikeen realized he was blind in the dim light of the cave.

Mazikeen placed the waterskin in his hand, and he brought it to his lips, drinking until he drained the entire skin. This time, when he started kicking off the sandals, she reached for his feet and untied them herself. He curled his toes and then lay down on his side on the bare stone, giving in to the exhaustion.

Ovtig lurched inside and threw her travel bag in the middle of the room. She stretched, took a long drink from her waterskin, and let out a satisfied belch. “Mazikeen, I told you I don’t want that monstrous thing looking at me. Get it bound up and keep it under control.”

Mazikeen stood up. She stepped over to Ovtig, getting up close, her face a finger's breadth away. “You told me what?”

Ovtig held her ground. Mazikeen didn’t expect the warrior to back down like a newly blooded whelp. She looked forward to fighting the slug-sucking moldwarp.

“You agreed to keep that thing under control.”

“Has he not been under control?” Mazikeen asked.

“It was being insolent again. Glaring,” Ovtig insisted, the confidence in her voice starting to waver. 

Mazikeen cocked her head to the side. “He’s blind in the dark. How’s he supposed to glare at you if he can’t even see you?”

Varun and Izuden pushed aside the door flap as they entered, shrugging off their packs and getting settled. They watched the display with detached interest. 

Ovtig breathed heavily. “How was I supposed to know that?”

“You can’t tell when a beast looks at you? I heard you’re the best warrior in your collective.” She narrowed her eyes and sniffed. “Maybe you are.” She shrugged and turned her back. She half hoped the other Lilim would attack her for the insult.

But she didn’t. Varun started a fire. Mazikeen fetched the salve from her bag and returned to the angel’s side to assess him. As soon as the fire was lit, the angel blinked in the sudden light, his gaze roaming the room until she caught his chin and faced him away from the others sitting at the fire. For a creature unaccustomed to something as simple as foot coverings, he hadn’t done badly on the march.

When he saw the jar of salve, he stretched out his feet toward her, and his cooperation relieved Mazikeen. White blisters stood in vivid contrast with his red hide. Once his feet numbed, she pierced the blisters and applied more salve to seal the open wounds. Then she re-wrapped his feet in the soft piece of skin to keep the ash out on the next march.

He was sleeping by the time Varun had prepared food. What was more important at the moment, letting the angel sleep or getting food into him? Considering how he collapsed as they entered the shelter, Mazikeen let him sleep. Food could wait for the next ashfall. She prepared her own bedroll next to the fire. Izuden and Varun settled into the corner, Izuden finally getting to have her way with the warrior. Even if she didn’t get a sprog from it, having coupled with a son of Lilith would raise her standing in the Spire. 

Mazikeen woke, a shadow, a footfall; she looked for intruders first. But it wasn’t an intruder her eyes caught; it was a figure crouched at the far side of the shelter leaning over the angel. 

His wing shifted as he breathed deep in sleep. Silently, Mazikeen sat up and crept closer. Ovtig squatted beside the angel’s wing, her hand hovering over the feathers as though contemplating which to choose. Though the wings had suffered damage, not all the valuable feathers were a waste. Rage boiled up inside Mazikeen. How _dare_ the other Lilim plot to remove what rightly belonged to Soverain Anilith?

“Need help?”

Ovtig lurched back. “You startled me. No. I was just checking on him.”

Mazikeen nodded. “He’s fine.”

The commotion caused the angel to stir. Unable to see in the darkness, he sat up and shuffled away from the noise.

Mazikeen stayed where she was until Ovtig backed down, slinking off to return to her bed. Mazikeen placed a hand on the angel’s shoulder, and he twitched at the unexpected contact.

“Go back to sleep.” 

He recognised her voice, and though some tension eased from his shoulders, he stayed upright and guarded, wings fanning forward, tight to his body, to shield his sides. 

Leaving him unguarded was not an option anymore. She returned with her bedroll, spreading it out on the floor where the angel had been resting. Mazikeen laid down and patted the mat beside her. He responded to the sound by moving closer and when he reached out and found the bedroll, he climbed onto the softer surface and laid down. 

Mazikeen stretched out beside him, placing herself between the other Lilim and the angel. What would he have done if Ovtig had taken a feather? The possibilities of how that could have spiraled out of control left her feeling chilled. 

She let her arm drift, resting her hand against the angel’s side, and he leaned into it, neither of them acknowledged the contact. 

Varun already had the fire going when the winds died down and Mazikeen woke.

She sat up. The angel had shifted in his sleep to lie on his side, his body pressing up against hers. He didn’t stir as she wiggled out from his touch.

Varun watched her keenly, and she glowered at him. In response, he smiled and went back to cooking. “It’s not like you to be protective of a prisoner,” he commented in a low voice. 

Mazikeen snorted, but she noticed that he called the angel a prisoner, not a beast. “What do you know of me? We’ve not hunted together in ages.”

He shrugged. “You are the prize warrior of Anilith. Melipath stays informed of those who could be potential allies.”

“I’m not Anilith’s anything, I’m my own Lilim.”

“It wouldn’t be terrible to hunt with you again.”

“You’d be willing to leave your cozy position as Melipath’s favorite male consort?”

Varun cast his eyes downward. “I’m growing weary of a life confined behind stronghold walls. Aren’t you?” 

Mazikeen glanced briefly at the still sleeping angel. “I never imagined he’d be…” 

“Aware? We’ve both seen beasts exhibit different levels of intelligence in the past.” 

“Not like this. My warg never talked. It never named itself.” 

Varun laughed. “And Samael is obviously no warg.”

Mazikeen liked the comforts of living in the collective. Certain annoyances were the price of those comforts, but she'd never felt this sliminess inside over any of it. She shifted, looking at Varun instead of the angel. “I wouldn’t refuse to hunt with you, either.” 

Varun heated the ooze porridge from the last meal, and Mazikeen brought it over to where the angel still slept. She patted his shoulder, and he stirred, blinking at her before sitting up. He rubbed his wrists where the binding held him and looked at her pointedly, but she ignored the silent plea. He sagged against the wall, yawning and listless.

“Eat.”

He gave her a put-upon sigh, but took the bowl. There were more dramatic noises as he chewed, but she ignored him as she packed.

Experienced Lilim warriors knew how to pack and move with little notice. Izuden was not a warrior, she was a Dame, and so Varun helped her pack while Mazikeen got the angel ready for another ashfall of marching.

This time he didn’t resist when she tugged at his ankle. He sighed like the world was about to end, but didn’t move as she tied the knots in place. A definite improvement. She patted his leg to show him she approved and pulled him up to his feet. He had the tendency to look toward the fire as he had while they were alone, and she had to turn him around to face the wall to avoid inciting a conflict with Ovtig, but they were ready to move again in good time. 

The march started without incident. Mazikeen waited a finger’s breadth of ash before she passed the binding cord to Izuden to hold. “Give me a few flakes of ash.”

Mazikeen stood in the middle of the path and held her knives ready as she waited for Ovtig to catch up. As the warrior walked closer, Mazikeen took a step forward. 

“We’re finished.”

Ovtig attempted to keep walking. “My assignment—”

“Go home. _My assignment_ is to transport the angel back to Anilith’s Collective. You are a threat to that goal.”

Still, Ovtig moved to ignore Mazikeen’s warning and step around her. Mazikeen stood her ground. “Do you really believe your Soverain will risk a war with the mighty Anilith over one troublesome warrior?”

Ovtig's nostrils flared. “May you die slow and wasteful,” she spat, and turned, walking away. 

Mazikeen waited until Ovtig walked out of sight, but didn’t trust it for a heartbeat. She and Varun would have to be doubly on guard for attacks. She ran to catch up to Izuden. 

The angel dipped his head forward, eyes focused on the ground as she neared. Suspicion flared in Mazikeen.

“What did he do?”

Izuden glanced at her, then away. “Nothing.”

Mazikeen caught the Lilim’s arm and halted her. “Tell me.”

She shifted, looked at the angel, and back to Mazikeen. “I got it to say my name.”

Mazikeen released the Dame and started walking again. “Okay. Let’s hear.”

Izuden smiled, “Really?” She poked the angel’s arm and sounded out her name.

The angel glanced at Mazikeen, but then he focused back on Izuden.

“Issen.” 

Izuden giggled. “Iz-u-den,” she said again.

“Issiden,” he repeated. And Izuden smiled and dug a thistle from her pouch and held it out for him. “Good.”

He grinned and gingerly plucked the treat from the youth’s hand and ate it. 

Mazikeen watched the exchange with amusement. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

Izuden smiled shyly, “We’ve got spire lizards out at our collective. They mimic voices all the time. The whelps like to teach them how to curse. You should hear the plateau at the beginning of ashfall when all the lizards come out and begin singing. It’s like a gathering of whelps shouting threats at each other.”

Mazikeen fell into step beside the young Lilim. “Ovtig has left our procession. If you spot her, inform me or Varun immediately.”

“I will,” she promised. “Does this mean you want me to guard the rear?”

Mazikeen snorted. “No. You remain here. But keep your attention; if you sense danger don’t discount it.”

Izuden continued the game she’d been playing before, teaching the angel how to say new words, and it reminded Mazikeen that Izuden was barely older than a whelp. 

“Boil Brain,” Izuden said, drawing the words out with exaggerated care.

The angel frowned in concentration. “Bol Bain.” 

Izuden corrected him, “Boy-el bray-n.” 

And with complete seriousness the angel answered, “Boil brain.” 

Izuden nodded, “Yes!” And offered him another thistle.

Mazikeen watched with amusement.

“Dizzy-eyed flap-dragon.”

The angel worked hard to get the pronunciation right. Izuden just about fell over laughing so hard, the angel seemed just as pleased with himself and repeated the words to Mazikeen. 

Mazikeen suppressed a grin and decided to try one as well. “Mewling wag-tail.”

He nodded and sounded out the words himself, making a few fumbles, but got it right in record time. “Give me one of those thistles,” she said to Izuden, and Izuden passed her one. Mazikeen held it out to him, and he smiled and plucked it out of her hand and popped it in his mouth. 

“Maze,” the angel said pointing at her. Mazikeen nodded. “Issiden,” he said pointing at the younger Lilim. He pointed behind them down the path and made a sour face, “Offsi?”

Mazikeen shook her head. “No,” she hummed trying to think up a way to explain. She made a walking figure with her hand. “Ovtig.” She flicked it away. 

The angel frowned and looked behind them with more alarm. He couldn’t mimic her actions with his wrists tied, but he brought his hand up to his throat in a slashing motion and closed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Then looked at her. 

“Oh, no, not dead, just gone.” She did her motions again, this time with her hand running away instead of being flicked. 

And the angel seemed to understand. Maybe. It was hard to tell.

He pointed ahead on the path. “Vrum?”

Mazikeen snickered. “Vare-run.”

He tried again. “Var-run.”

“Good.” She grabbed another thistle from Izuden and tried to offer it to him; he accepted but held onto it. 

Serious now, he brought his hands up to his chest. “Sam-a-el.”

He’d told her that already, but that had been before Ovtig attacked him.

“Samael,” she repeated.

He sighed with relief and nodded. “Good.” And he passed her the thistle. Mazikeen accepted it and popped it in her mouth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fill for Whumptober #25 Humiliation


	4. Last Chance

Image:

[ ](https://eastwesthomeisbest.tumblr.com/)

At two fingers of ashfall, Mazikeen and Izuden caught up with Varun, who had stopped at the side of the path. He already had a fire going and meat boiling in a pot.

“Don’t bother making any for Ovtig,” Mazikeen called out as she approached. Varun didn’t look up and Mazikeen did not repeat herself. She brought the angel Samael close to the fire, and he sat, heavy with fatigue.

“There’s no activity on the trail,” Varun reported.

Mazikeen suspected Ovtig would retaliate for the insult of being dismissed. She’d have preferred to deal with Ovtig outright, but killing a rival on a ceremonial trek was a political mess Mazikeen didn’t want to entangle herself in.

Samael shut his mouth, and cast his eyes to the side. He fidgeted with his sandals, toeing at them.

Mazikeen placed a hand on his ankle. He blew out a short breath but stilled at her touch.

Izuden dropped the travel bags she carried and joined them. “Varun, we taught the angel more words.” She tapped Samael on the arm.

“Spongy nutworm.”

Samael made eye contact with Mazikeen first. She nodded. He sounded out the words. Izuden had to say it for him once more for him to work it out. He repeated the words and held out his bound hands, palm up, and waited. Izuden rewarded him with a thistle.

Varun grunted, less than impressed. “Whelp insults? Why not something useful?”

Izuden giggled, “It’s not like he knows what he’s saying.”

“Being able to sound out ridiculous whelp calls won’t help him.” He scooped meat and broth into bowl shaped shells.

“Help him do what?” Izuden asked.

“Nothing. He’s intended to be harvested for feathers,” Mazikeen interjected.

Izuden glanced at the angel with more interest. “Do you think he’ll grow more?”

“If he does, he’ll be a valuable resource.” 

Izuden stared, transfixed by the angel’s battered wings, so much so that Samael twitched and drew them up close against his back.

Varun’s disapproval didn’t lessen Izuden’s fun, and the young Dame continued her game. She resumed, “Fawning clay-brained harpie.”

Mazikeen considered unbinding Samael’s wrists. He’d been able to function with them bound so far, but she didn’t see the benefit of keeping him that way if she didn’t need to. She didn’t have to unbind both wrists, and if he tried to cause problems she could always bind him again.

The word he sounded out was nothing like the one Izuden had given him, and the young Dame repeated it again, slow and clear.

“Fan-nin-lay-” he started, stringing the words together, but faltered as Mazikeen reached over and tugged at the cord wound around his wrist. There were indentations on his skin where it had dug in, and he rubbed at the free skin with his other hand. He smiled at Mazikeen, stretched his arms, and rolled his shoulders with obvious relief.

Izuden clapped her hands to draw the angel’s attention back to her. “No,” she scolded. “Fawn-ing clay-brained harpy.”

With utmost seriousness, Samael went back to his task of sounding out silly Lilim curses. “Fonning. Clay. Brained—”

While Izuden was occupied with Samael, Varun patted the spot beside him, inviting Mazikeen to sit closer for a moment. She saw no harm in it, and joined him at his side. “What? Is this about the outcasts you spotted earlier?” she whispered. 

“No. Like I said, the trail was clear. This is about your angel.” 

“He’s not mine.” 

Varun shrugged. "He’d be better off if he was. Samael is more like us than any beast I’ve ever come across.”

“We have a duty.”

He reached over and placed the bowls in a line to start dishing out the stew. “And I’m just a male. What does my opinion matter, right?” 

“I’ve always regarded you as my equal,” she protested, but then Mazikeen froze, her gut sinking at the truth of Varun’s words. “I never ordered you to serve us.” 

“It’s custom for males to prepare meals and serve, and I’m the only male of our party. That’s just the way things are, isn’t it? I’m not complaining.” He tasted the stew briefly and then took a pouch from his preserves bag and pinched some more spicy smelling dried fungus into the pot before dishing it out into the bowls. He passed them out.

Mazikeen went back to sit beside Samael as he continued trying to sound out Lilim syllables. He accepted the bowl and brought it up to his lips right away. One sip was all it took to set him gagging. He spat beside him into the dust, hunched over. Mazikeen glared at Varun and grabbed the bowl, trying it herself, worried about poison.

There was nothing wrong with it. Was this a ruse? Was the angel trying to distract them to make an escape?

She thrust the bowl at him. “Eat.”

He held his mouth shut and shook his head, no. She pushed it at Samael again, and he gagged and pulled away. 

This was the thanks she got for protecting him from Ovtig and unbinding one of his wrists? The ungrateful, obstinate… She pushed the bowl back toward him yet again. “Eat,” she growled, letting her voice sink deep and threatening.

Samael continued to refuse. He pushed his arm in front of her and pinched his skin between two fingers, reached over and pinched her skin, and pointed at the bowl. “No.”

“It’s not Lilim in the bowl,” she exclaimed with exasperation. Did he think Lilim ate other Lilim? “It’s a cliff rat.” She dug out a dried hunk of rat leg from Varun’s travel bag and held it up. “Good. Eat.” She bit off a chunk for good measure and ignored Varun's dismayed glare as she shoved it back in his bag.

But the angel looked at her like she’d bitten into a newborn Lilim sprog.

“Varun, make more of the ooze. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but he has to eat something.”

Varun put more water over the fire to boil. “More for the rest of us.” .

“Drink?” Mazikeen offered, and Samael held out his hand for the waterskin. He drank, spat again, and drank more before handing it back to her.

To ease the tension, Mazikeen was about to continue Izuden’s game, but Varun spoke first.

“One.”

The angel looked up. Varun held up his hand and lifted one finger.

“One,” Varun repeated.

Samael nodded, and mimicked the action, holding up one finger. “One.” 

“Good,” Varun answered. He mixed the powder into the water and looked back to Samael. He lifted another finger. “Two.”

The angel followed suit.

“He’s copying you,” Izuden laughed, but Varun followed his pattern to five.

Varun mixed the ooze in the bowl, letting the water turn it into a lumpy gel, and held it back. He showed the angel one finger, but said nothing.

Samael rolled his eyes. “One.”

Varun held up four fingers.

“Four,” Samael answered, and held out his hand for the bowl of food.

Varun led him through more random sequences, and the angel got the number right each time, looking more and more annoyed at the exercise as Varun continued withholding the food.

Mazikeen grabbed the bowl and passed it to Samael herself. “Good,” she told him and glared at Varun. “What are you trying to prove?”

“He remembers the numbers, Mazikeen.”

“Kind of hard to miss that. He has a good memory.”

“He understands more than you’re willing to admit.”

“And your point?”

“You know what they’ll do to him.”

“And what? I should hand him over to you and Melipath because he’d be treated so much better in the care of your collective? I don't think so.” She thew up her hands. “It has nothing to do with me. They charged me with bringing him back. That’s what I’m doing.”

“What if you didn’t?”

Samael watched them as he ate, and Mazikeen felt uneasy discussing his fate in front of him. The angel finished and passed the bowl back to Varun.

“Are you thinking of letting him go?” Izuden asked.

Both Mazikeen and Varun looked away. “No,” Mazikeen insisted.

Samael tried to catch Varun’s attention, he held up one hand and one finger and waited. When Varun didn’t respond he persisted. “Five.” Samael held up five fingers, and then held up one finger from his other hand again.

“Six.” Mazikeen supplied and held up her own hands, going through the numbers up to ten. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good that the angel understood concepts and wanted to learn more. Why couldn’t he have just been a beast, mindless and predictable?

She left the cord binding on his one wrist when they resumed walking. Samael took longer getting to his feet this time, limping as they got started. It would do them no good if his feet became so damaged he could no longer walk.

Izuden trotted along at their side. She told another story about her home collective, this time a tale about an umberhulk that dug its way up into the lower levels of the Spire and set the nest-minders into a panic. The story concluded with the spawn ganging up together and beating the umberhulk to death with spank sticks. Mazikeen laughed but didn’t believe a word of it.

With the story complete Izuden tried to start her game with Samael again, but Mazikeen stopped her. “Don’t encourage him.”

“But you did.”

“I shouldn’t have. You may show mercy to gain a captive’s cooperation, but never empathise with them.”

Izuden nodded and hurried her pace to walk several feet ahead when Samael looked over at her.

Mazikeen sighed and continued at the angel’s side. He tried speaking in Lilim, listing numbers and repeating badly pronounced insults, but Mazikeen refused to respond.

The ash grew thick, and Samael started walking faster, his wings twitching as he surveyed the surrounding landscape.The path dropped off into a ravine to the left, and tall cliffs lined the right. As they walked, he began moving his wings, flexing and extending them with nervous tension. Was he plotting an escape? Mazikeen tightened her grip on the binding cord.

“Maze,” Samael said in a low voice, pointedly looking upwards.

A dusting of misplaced ash floated down the rock-face and drew her attention above, alerting just in time to a disturbance on top of the cliff to their right. Her main concern was protecting the angel, she dropped her hold on the binding and pushed him toward a depression in the rockface. 

The first rock smashed on the trail, only missing her by a handsbreadth.

Two hooded and masked Lilim crested the ravine, their swords ready. Mazikeen grinned, gripping her knives. 

From above, another boulder fell with a deafening blow; dust and pebbles struck her legs.

The enemy Lilim flanked her, but Mazikeen spun, fending off the attack from both sides while slashing her opponent’s ribs.

The next boulder forced Mazikeen back, stumbling at the edge of the path near the drop-off. A hand gripped her wrist and pulled her to the safety of solid ground. Samael. Mazikeen cursed, he shouldn’t be in the fray, she needed to protect him. But as she was about to push him back into relative safety, he moved forward with unexpected dexterity. As the enemy attacked, he lunged forward, moving fluidly and redirecting the thrust of the sword with a swipe of his arm. He flipped the warrior onto her back and knelt at her side, keeping her pinned to the ground as she struggled against his superior strength. 

Mazikeen stood over him, protecting his back and staving off the second attacker with her knife. She kicked the Lilim’s knee and slashed her blade across the other female’s neck. Mazikeen trusted that Izuden had the sense to run toward Varun's forward scouting position, and not back into this fray.

Samael continued to pin the Lilim he defeated, and she took the opportunity to slit that one’s throat as well. Samael recoiled as fresh hot blood burst forth from his prisoner’s flesh. 

There was barely enough time to yank him out of the way as another boulder smashed against the path where they’d been just moments ago. Dust and ash filled the air. This one had been large enough to crush a body. Idiots. She assumed the attack was an attempt to steal the angel for themselves, and yet they were risking the very thing they wished to claim.

She grabbed the fallen warriors sword off the ground and thrust the hilt at Samael as yet another boulder crashed beside them, the reverberations rattling in her ears. Too close. The large rock lay, half-covering the fallen enemy warrior's torso and head; the smell of offal tainted the air, and dark viscous fluid oozed out from beneath. 

The enemy up on the cliff needed to be stopped, but she doubted Samael was capable of such a steep climb. 

“Stay.” With a forceful shove, she pushed Samael back into the depression of the cliff. He’d be protected from debris there. Where were Varun and Izuden? She couldn’t defend the angel from all sides on her own. If more enemies came at least Samael had a sword. 

The falling rocks were the primary threat at the moment. Samael grimaced at her, but said nothing as she ran off.

Mazikeen raced up the cliff. One Lilim confronted her with a bone club augmented with metal spikes.

Mazikeen fought him. It was no wonder this warrior had been assigned to throw rocks like a coward from above, his combat skills were deplorable. It didn’t take much to over power him and with a kick to his chest, send him toppling from the very cliff he’d been hurling rocks from. The body landed on the path below with a satisfying thump, and stilled. 

She was still looking over the edge when Samael emerged from his hiding spot and looked up at her. 

Another Lilim crested the ravine. She’d recognise her enemy anywhere. Ovtig. Samael turned as he, too, became aware of his enemy climbing up onto the path. He raised the blade and faced her head on. 

Mazikeen had to get down there. 

She spared a glance down the trail. Where were Varun and Izuden? Varun would never allow a group of motherless renegades to take him down.

Ovtig flicked her whip, the crack it made as it flew echoed against the rocks, but the angel showed no fear. He advanced, wings outspread. Despite their damage, the feathers began to glow with an intense light. 

The whip lashed outward, and Samael blocked with his sword to avoid the worst of the intended damage, but the end of the cord licked against his shoulder. The clothes Mazikeen had made for him split where the whip slashed, but he only reacted with a slight flinch. Ovtig leapt forward, clawed fingers extended. Samael quickly sidestepped, grabbing the Lilim’s arm and using her own momentum as a weapon. She stumbled, falling to the ground. 

Mazikeen stopped staring at the fight and scrambled down the cliff to her angel’s aid. She missed what happened next. By the time she reached the path below Ovtig was lying in the ash and gravel, bleeding and unconscious, but breathing. The wounds didn't appear to be mortal. 

But she wasn’t concerned with Ovtig at the moment. Was the angel all right? Was he damaged? He stood several feet away, the sword he’d held before discarded on the ground. 

Samael was staring fixedly at the above, his body illuminated against the backdrop of dark gray void sloping down the ravine beyond him. Splashes of dark red marred the pristine white glow of the undamaged feathers. He flexed his wings forcefully, stirring up a whirlwind of ash, but the right wing faltered, fluttering in pain for a moment before retracting and folding tightly against his back. 

Varun and Izuden rounded the bend and froze. They peered at the angel standing unbound on scarred earth, their fallen foes scattered among them. 

Mazikeen glared at Samael as she quickly checked him for injuries. There was some swelling at the shoulder where the whip had torn his clothes, but nothing more significant than that. What was he still doing here? So what if he couldn’t fly. He should have run. Her reputation would be in ruins, but...didn’t he know what they were planning to do to him? 

No, of course he didn’t. What motivation would he have for for escaping now? He was from the above. How long would he survive on his own? Even he had to know how ill adapted to this realm he was. 

But what could she do? Her own duty was clear; bring Samael to Anilith. To do otherwise at this point would mean exile.

Gravel crunched under Varun's feet as he joined her. His breastplate sported a new gouge and blood trickled from a gash on his upper arm.

“Took you long enough. Did they fight well?” Mazikeen asked. 

He grunted and ignored the dig. “They all bear Regulith’s crest; defying tradition and breaking the sacred Mother’s Journey like this will infuriate the other collectives,” Varun said grimly. 

Mazikeen agreed. “Regulith is an upstart. She’s been a problem since she started gaining power._ Idiot_.” 

Varun sighed and nodded. Disappointing as it was, this was a political matter now and out of their hands. He looked over at Samael. “The angel fought by your side?”

“Yes. He wields a sword like a warrior.”

Varun smirked and stepped to Ovtig's side, examining her. “He doesn’t kill like one,” he said. “She’s still alive.” He thrust his sword down into her chest, drawing forth a gasping hiss from the enemy Lilim as she died. 

Varun carefully wiped off his blade and turned to Mazikeen. “Did the angel attempt to escape?” 

“No.”

Varun sighed. “Too bad. Do we carry on?” 

Mazikeen nodded. “We have to.”

They took care of the bodies, stripping them of weapons and valuables. The female warrior that Mazikeen had felled was the same stature as Izuden, and so they claimed the armor for the young Dame to protect her on the rest of the journey.

Samael watched it all, his eyes drifting to the dead Lilim scattered around them.

It would not take long for the sounds of fighting and the smell of blood to draw beasts. Already Mazikeen saw a flying gutrender circling above, gliding on its great leathery wings. She tapped Samael's shoulder and pointed at the flying beast. He reached for the sword he'd dropped, but Mazikeen grasped his hand and tugged him forward.

Not far down the path, there were two more Lilim corpses bearing the sigil of Regolith. There could be no doubt that this was a planned attack. Dread coiled tight in Mazikeen’s gut. Soverain Regulith and her collective would pay for this betrayal, and that didn’t bode well for anyone.

Mazikeen carved the crests off the armor of each warrior as evidence, and they carried on.

“Six,” Samael mumbled as they walked.

“Six warriors,” Mazikeen confirmed.

He opened his mouth, and closed it, wanting to say something but lacking the words. He pointed at himself.

“Yes. They came for you.”

He glanced back again, and his wings twitched. Based on his earlier interactions with Ovtig, she could only imagine what he thought they would have done with him. Mazikeen wondered if what he imagined was any worse than what her own Soverain had planned.

And she was leading him straight to her. 

The attack meant it took longer to reach the intended shelter; the winds were already strong by the time they filtered into the safety of the cave. Izuden secured the door flap, binding it, and Varun built a fire so they could make supper.

Samael sat down and leaned forward to undo his sandals. If he wished to be barefoot while in the shelter, she had no issues with that.

Mazikeen passed Samael her waterskin. “Drink.”

He drank and gave it back to her. “Good,” he said again.

And this time she nodded. “It’s good. Yeah.” 

Izuden helped with unpacking their bedrolls. “Varun is such a good fighter. You should have seen him!” She beamed and glanced at the male longingly. “They never trained me as a warrior. I only know what they taught us in the nest. Do you think Ovtig wanted us dead?”

“Not all of us,” Mazikeen assured her. “She’d have taken the angel and you for her Soverain.”

Izuden shuddered. “No way. I’ve met males from Regulith before. Did you know they collect skulls? I heard they have spikes running all along the ridge that bear the rotting heads of their enemies. And Regulith herself has a decorative wall stacked with them in her Spire.”

“Those are rumors,” Mazikeen scoffed.

But Varun looked up from where he prepared the meal. “It’s not a rumor. I’ve seen it. They collect skulls the way Anilith collects beast claws.”

They still had some pieces of dried meat. Varun threw them into a pot to boil into a broth. “Do you think the angel will eat?”

Mazikeen shrugged. “Make more of the porridge.”

Varun nodded, but set it aside to use only if Samuel refused the hearty stew again.

It would take them one more ashfall to reach the borders of Aniliths collective. Samael’s feet were raw and bloody again, but this time she considered not treating them with salve. If he had trouble walking, it would slow them down. For what? For him to plot an escape attempt? For her to think up an alternative plan? There was no alternative plan. The angel belonged to Anilith. Letting the angel suffer wasn’t a solution. She fetched the salve from her travel bag and sat across from Samael.

With the light of the cooking fire allowing his eyes to focus, Samael recognized the medicinal salve. After a disgusted look at his skin, he stretched his leg out for her, willing to cooperate. She wiped the damaged area first with moss and water, and spread the salve. He sighed with relief as the numbing effect took hold. 

Next she checked his arm where he’d deflected Ovtig’s whip. It was difficult to discern on his red and scarred skin what was a wound and what was not. There was no bleeding. She held up the salve and pointed at his arm, and he shook his head, no. 

Mazikeen reached into her bag for a needle and string to repair the rip Ovtig's whip made in Samael's chiton. The pin still held the long hide in place, but the rip almost severed the fastening. She'd have to remove the garment so she could stitch it. She unpinned the shoulder, and started untying the belt. He caught her hand his expression alarmed. 

Was he worried about being unclothed? But then, she saw how he looked at his arms. Thinking about it now, there’d been multiple times she’d noticed him frowning at his own skin, clearly disturbed by the ruin of his scarred flesh. Instead of taking the chiton, she reached over and pulled a large thin blanket from her travel bag and held it out in trade. 

He accepted the blanket and let her take the damaged chiton, covering himself quickly with the thin fabric. She set about repairing the piece of clothing quickly and handed it back. He pinned and tied it into place, not with ease, but he managed on his own. He learned quickly. 

He patted her shoulder. “Good.”

No. It wasn’t good. Nothing about this was _good_.

She felt sick knowing the fate she was delivering him to; being kept alive as a resource to supply the divinity they all craved. All of it was out of her control, she had a task to do and she would do it. But, what if something unexpected happened? It wouldn’t be her fault if her captive overpowered her and flew away, for example. The damage to her reputation would be forgotten eventually. She pointed at his back and linked her thumbs and made a waving motion with her fingers, trying to copy what flying would look like.

He frowned and extended his wings, making a similar motion.

No, he didn’t understand. She tried again, this time moving her hands up and away as she flapped her fingers.

“No,” he said, and made the same hand motion, only instead of moving his hands up and away, he let them flop onto his lap. 

So, no flying. She drummed her fingers on her lap a moment, thinking. 

“Food is ready,” Varun called, interrupting her train of thought. He filled four bowls with meat broth and passed two to Mazikeen.

She passed one to Samael. “Eat.”

He held it for only a moment, smelled it and made a face. He handed it back.

Mazikeen didn’t accept, she pushed it toward him again.

Again he pushed it toward her. “No,” he said again, his voice more firm. He sighed and placed the bowl on the ground. He pointed at the rat tail Izuden was roasting over the fire. “No.”

“Meat?” she asked, and turned back to Varun. “I think he’s trying to say he doesn’t like meat.”

Varun laughed. “What kind of creature did you say he is?”

Mazikeen laughed. “Maybe there aren’t beasts where he comes from?”

Izuden bit off the end of her snack. “How does he survive?”

Mazikeen shrugged. “Make the porridge. At least we know he likes that.”

Samael sighed with relief when she took the bowl away. She pointed toward Varun and the powdered scorched ooze he was mixing. “Good?”

Samael smiled and nodded. “Good.” He agreed.

The least she could do in the time left was feed him something he liked.

“Is it okay if I do words with him again?” Izuden asked later while Varun was cleaning up the supper supplies.

Mazikeen nodded. “Don’t get attached.”

Izuden grinned and scooted closer, eager to have Samael start repeating after her.

Izuden giggled. “Spongey bat-fowling minnow.”

Samael leaned forward, mimicking, and when the words came out half right in his strange melodic accent, even Mazikeen couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’ve enjoyed traveling with you again.” Varun smiled at Mazikeen. 

“Like old times. But without the starving and threat of constant attack,” she teased. 

“It wasn’t all bad back then.” 

“I’ve been growing tired of life behind stronghold walls, as well,” Mazikeen admitted. “It could be good to go back to simpler times, before collectives, and self-proclaimed Soverains.” 

Varun grinned. “I knew you couldn’t be happy living a life of ease.”

Mazikeen snorted. "Ease and rules. Rituals and customs. Separating Lilim based on beast traits and symmetry. Does Melipath’s collective have a throwback quarter?"

Varun shrugged. "Most collectives do.” The Soverains always preferred the company of those with softer features, who remind them of Mother’s uncorrupted beauty. It was the way of things. The throwbacks remind the elite too much of our beast origins to ever be favored.

Off to the side, Samael giggled. The sound, innocent and pure, cut through Izuden's cackles. Between laughs she gasped out, "No, no, no! It's lumpish gut-gripper." 

Varun looked from Samael back to Mazikeen. "He's not Lilim. What hope is there for him when they banish our own spawn to the slums to be used as labor or war fodder?"

Mazikeen had no answer for that. 

They fell into contemplative silence as they watched Izuden and Samael continue their game. Varun joined in and taught Samael new words like fire, sword, wing, and bag, things they had on hand he could point to and identify. It wasn’t like the mimicking for fun that Izuden did; these were useful words. It wasn’t a bad idea. But she didn’t think it would change anything.

Mazikeen nudged Varun's shoulder. “You should let him rest, we’ve still got a long way to go before we reach the border next ashfall.”

Varun nodded and retreated to his bedroll, as did Izuden. They had their bedrolls spread together close to the fire pit. If the young Dame didn't get a sprog from Varun, it wouldn't be for lack of trying. 

Mazikeen lit a candle close to Samael, remembering that he couldn’t see in the full darkness, and set out her bedroll. She hadn’t tied him to anything this time, but she kept the cord close to her hand, within reach. She stretched out and patted the space beside her. Samael joined her and scrunched up close so they’d both have room to lay. He turned on his side facing her and patted her shoulder, “Good Maze.”

Mazikeen put her finger to his mouth. “Shush,” she said and watched him nod and close his eyes, succumbing to exhaustion.

...

Mazikeen woke first. By the sound of the door flap buckling in the wind, it was still too soon to venture outside, so she busied herself with packing. Unless something happened, they’d reach the border of her collective by the next wind. After that, it was a short walk to the gates. 

Varun woke next, then Samael, and Izuden. They ate—yet more of the scorched ooze for Samael—drank, and packed.

Samael didn’t even grumble when she tied the sandals to his feet. The four of them had found a routine, the way all cohesive traveling parties do. She made eye contact with Varun, and then looked at the angel, and Varun nodded. He set about distracting Izuden while Mazikeen brought Samael outside.

She removed the binding cord and placed it in her bag. He rubbed his wrist and stared at her.

She put her thumbs together and made the flapping motion. “Go on, use your wings.”

With a roll of his shoulders, his wings extended. Ash stirred into the air as he flexed. He looked at Mazikeen again, and then...

She knew something more should have happened, but Samael grunted as the right faltered, bones clicking as he shuddered and tucked it in against his back.

Damn it. Mazikeen paced. The angel could barely walk with sandals; she was lucky he kept up with them. She doubted he had any skills at hiding his trail or surviving on his own. He didn’t even eat meat. How would he fend for himself? Abandoning him to starvation and exposure was not mercy.

How long would it take for his wing to heal?

Maybe the other Lilim would see there was more to the angel than what they could harvest from him. If they did, would anything change? Would Anilith care about any of that? He was a resource and was bound to be treated like one.

Varun and Izuden exited the shelter shortly after. Varun looked from Mazikeen to the angel and sighed. It was time to set out.

They were only four, but this near Anilith's territory, the beasts were wary of the sounds of Lilim and avoided their path. Izuden played more of her game with Samael; it was nonsense, but it was fun. “Puny dung-beetle,” Izuden said next, and Samael repeated. Through the ashfall, the words he formed grew more distinct as Izuden continued to correct his mispronunciations.

Mazikeen rescued Samael from the young Lilim’s endless game and told Izuden to run ahead to check in with Varun. The Dame saw any reason to talk to the male warrior as a good reason.

Pausing, Maze grabbed his hand, needing his full attention. How much did he understand? “Talk to them. Show them you can learn,” she urged. “I’ll do what I can to help. You’re valuable. They won't want to risk damaging you.”

She hated knowing he had no clue what she was trying to warn him about.

“Whatever you do, don’t fight them. I saw you fight Ovtig; I know you’re a warrior,” she said and at Ovtig’s name he frowned, recognizing it among the unknown words she said. “Don’t let them know how strong you are.”

He grew impatient with his own lack of understanding, and he pointed at her, and himself, and interlaced his fingers.

“No,” she pulled his hands apart. She made two walking figures with her hands, walking them together, and then walking in opposite directions.

He was silent for a moment. “Varun?”

“No.”

“Issiden?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Ovtig?”

“Ovtig is dead,” she said, making a slashing motion with her thumb and sticking out her tongue.

“More Ovtig,” he tried.

This time Mazikeen was the one who didn’t understand.

He tried again. “Maze, good. Varun, good. Issen, good. Ovtig not.” He held out two hands. “Maze, Varun, Issen,” he said and looked at his right hand. “Ovtig,” he added and looked left. He pointed to the path ahead and held out his hands. “Good? Not good?”

Mazikeen grabbed his left hand and gave it a squeeze. “Not good.”

This time he understood. 

And yet he didn’t escape.

She kept the binding cord off his wrist and gave him plenty of opportunity to make a move. 

The closer they got to Anilith’s territory, the worse his chances got.

A stone totem in the shape of a snake with a female head and arms like pincers marked the borders of her collective. Mazikeen paused and pointed it out to him.

Samael stared at it, frowning. Whatever interested or disturbed him about the idol also made Mazikeen think perhaps this was the right time. There was one more thing she could try. She took the binding cord out of her pocket and held it up, dangling it in Samael’s face.

He took a step away from the cord, wings extending.

Mazikeen held out her hand, even though it was the opposite of what she wanted. She wanted him to run, fight, fly away. Anything rather than deliver him to Anilith.

He looked behind him, at the path they’d taken, and all around the landscape. He flexed his wings again, grimacing as he worked the injured limb. And he tried. Mazikeen felt the rush of air sweep up from the force of his attempt to get off the ground, but the right wing shuddered and could not sustain any momentum. 

He squared his shoulders and tried again. Mazikeen chewed her lip. This was his last chance. He had to...

Varun came running back along the path. He stared at the angel and at Mazikeen. “Anilith’s warriors are here to escort us.” He watched Samael struggling to get off the ground.

Mazikeen nodded, heart pounding. She could hear the rapid marching steps of warriors down the path from them. Samael heard them too. One last effort, a mighty push of the wings, and he let out a pained gasp and fell to one knee. His wings trembled as he folded them up against his back. It took effort, but he pushed himself up to his feet and stood before her with his back straight and shoulders square. He held out his hands in front of him and stared down the path. He knew his time was up.

Mazikeen bound his wrists just before the other warriors arrived.

“Ovtig?” he asked again, looking down the path as the first Lilim came into sight.

She nodded. “Ovtig.”

He took a deep breath and bowed his head, playing the role of the subdued captive.

She sighed with relief when the squad of ten Lilim stopped to stare, but did not interfere.

“Is that the living-angel?”

Mazikeen rolled her eyes, and one of the warriors slapped the head of the male who had asked the question. “No, it’s an umberhulk, you fool,” the warrior said, and the rest laughed.

“You’re not to touch him,” Mazikeen ordered. 

There was no more talking. Mazikeen insisted on fulfilling her assignment to deliver the angel all the way to the Spire where she handed over his care to the guard waiting there. She would make a case with Anilith for him to be treated well, and she had an ally in Izuden. They would try to protect him.

Samael followed without resistance, but he looked back at her as they pulled him into the massive tower, making eye contact one last time before the heavy iron door clanged shut. 


	5. The Vow

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"Did you hear? The angel is dead."

Mazikeen heard the news the moment she walked back through the gates into Anilith's collective. She pushed aside the anger that welled within her. It was for the best. Three cycles of infant sprogs had turned into toddling spawn since she'd last been home.

The retaliation against Regulith for Ovtig's attempt to steal the angel against Lilith's wishes was swift. In truth, the rival collectives had been waiting for a good excuse to annihilate the upstart Soverain and claim her land.

The battle had begun promising but then deteriorated into a drawn out siege. Mazikeen was just glad it was over, and she could return to her dome and relax in the commons, showing off her trophies and telling stories of her exploits.

Curious Lilim drowned her with questions. _"How many warriors did you kill?" "What treasures did we win?" "How many Dames and infant sprogs will join our nest?"_

She showed off her collection of daggers she'd taken off the rivals she defeated. Told tales of the fertile caves around the deceased Soverain's stronghold and the giant beasts that could be found there. The procession of male nest minders escorting the newly adopted infant sprogs and young spawn would be arriving soon. No one would be disappointed.

"What is the state of the conflict now?" Question after question flowed from the surrounding crowd. "Why have you returned early?"

She laughed at that one. There was nothing early about it. "A blood-drought was called. The fighting ended."

Now it was up to the Soverains to sort out the politics, or more accurately, the Dame assigned to act on the Soverain's behalf. Squabbling for territory was beneath the dignity of a Soverain, especially when it meant leaving the comfort of their own spires.

It felt good to come home to her own dome. Though the entrance was sealed tight in her absence, thick drifts of ash had collected in the corners. She didn't care. All she wanted was her bedroll; the rest could wait.

It was Traz who woke her from a deep sleep. The warrior slapped her hand against Mazikeen's door flap and shouted her name. The last Mazikeen had seen of Traz had been in the spire with Samael.

Mazikeen grumbled as she got up, but let the Lilim in. Anilith favored Traz now more than ever. It was better not to ignore the warrior outright.

Traz wasted no time on pleasantries. "We require your help with the angel."

"They told me he's dead."

"It is. Get rid of it. Take it away. As the most experienced harvester in our collective—"

"The only harvester," Mazikeen corrected her. She was the only warrior of the collective to find the landing sites first; the only to successfully stash the bodies where no one else would find them. None in Anilith's collective had ever plucked intact feathers, their divinity whole and uncorrupted, from the dead angels that fell from above, save her. Others had tried and the fragments they came away with were barely salvageable as dust to use as fungus crops fertilizer. Feathers were too rare and valuable to waste. She would not tolerate this lower Lilim insinuating that status belonged to any save her alone.

"Yes. You have experience with these things. We decided you should have the _honor_ to dispose of it."

Mazikeen snorted. Honor. Right. More like Anilith trying to distance herself from Mother's wrath. And to think she'd been expecting a summons to deliver a field assessment to the Soverain.

"How did he die?" Before joining the assault on Regulith, she'd done what she could to negotiate the angel's living conditions. When she'd left, they had him confined to a secure guest room, free to roam his cell unbound, granted a hearth fire, and allowed his odd preference of non-meat meals. She'd trusted Izuden to handle the details in her absence.

"He stopped breathing."

Mazikeen let out an impatient breath. She'd learn after inspecting the remains.

Anilith had welcomed Izuden into her circle after determining she had gotten a sprog from Varun, and Mazikeen had trusted the young Dame to speak on the angel's behalf. While away, she imagined the Dame continuing her game of teaching Samael Lilim words, useful ones rather than whelp curses, and Mazikeen had even dared to hope that when she returned, they'd be able to have a proper conversation.

"How long has he been dead?"

"Long enough for the last brood of sprog to grow into toddling spawn. Mazikeen, the creature is an abomination. The remains are warm and uncorrupted. There's no hint of decay. Moss grows thick around it, and the air is unnaturally pure."

"That's how they all are." She would not harvest from his body, not even if his wings were fully recovered with unharvested feathers. He had a warrior's heart and she could at least give him a warrior's rest. She'd place him near the female she had hidden hundreds of cycles ago. It seemed right to reunite him with his kind again, even if only in death.

Mazikeen sighed. "Take me to him."

"Follow me."

It was a not-so-subtle insult. Rather than follow, Mazikeen strode beside Traz as she led the way to the central spire, falling behind only after entering and beginning their descent into the dungeon caverns below. The passageways inside narrowed the deeper underground they went. The cave system under the spire went so deep that even Lilim needed to light a torch to see.

"This is where you stored the corpse?"

"The beast did not regenerate its feathers. This is where worthless things belong."

"He wasn't dead yet when you brought him down here?"

"Does it matter?"

The tunnel altered the further they went, but not in the way these networks normally did. Life sprouted from crevices in the rock. Moss, the likes of which Mazikeen had only seen at harvest sites, grew rich and dense as they continued, culminating around one door in particular.

A heavy iron bar held the door in place. From the growth attached to the frame and lock bar, it had been a long time since anyone ventured inside. After clearing away the dense vegetation, it took both their strength to lift the iron bar on the door and pry it open.

Traz held the torch aloft, illuminating a cell covered—walls, floor, and ceiling—in brightly colored and patterned mosses and fungi. This was more extensive than anything she'd ever witnessed at a harvest site. Inside, the angel lay curled on his side with his eyes closed and mouth gagged. His skin remained as she'd last seen it, pitted and scarred, but now there were dark patches, bruises, and lacerations she didn't recall being there before. The wings were ravaged, entirely bare of feathers. The divine cord bound his wings to his back, and his wrists were hobbled tight to his ankles.

Mazikeen could only stand and stare. "How did it come to this? Why is he bound like that?"

"The guards bound it after it tried to escape, they feared it would make another attempt."

Mazikeen grit her teeth. "I suppose you succeeded in that. A dead angel never escapes."

"Aren't you going to examine it? You being the_ expert_, and all."

Dead angels rested in an unchangeable state. Mazikeen felt sick in her chest that Samael would follow that pattern and stay eternally bruised and broken.

"What happened to his wings?"

"Harvested. Soverain ordered it."

"And then?"

"The feathers never grew back. It was all just useless narrow spines. No matter how many times we removed them, that's all it produced. After we brought it down here even those didn't sprout."

"Why bother gagging him?"

Traz's expression turned vicious. "The way it mimicked Lilim speech was offensive. Before it stilled, it cried out your name, as if it only needed to beg properly for us to bring you to him. _Maze, Maze_. I don't think it ever caught on that you weren't coming back."

Mazikeen lunged at Traz, slamming her against the wall. She snarled, her teeth only a breath away from the Lilim's throat. "I'm here now."

Traz whimpered and Mazikeen set her free.

Traz backed away and her fingers flexed over her blade handles, but Mazikeen knew the Lilim was too weak-minded to follow through. Anilith favored Traz for her simpering praise and compliments, not her boldness. Mazikeen ignored the fellow warrior and crouched beside the trussed-up body and rested her hand on his wrist. His skin was cool, not much warmer than the stone beneath him. The perfectly preserved angels she harvested were warmer, more lifelike.

But then she felt it…a flutter of something under her fingers. Just once. She held her fingers in place, and she felt it again.

She put her hand in front of his mouth but felt nothing.

"It's dead. Do you think us stupid? We—"

"Yes."

Traz fumed as she finished her sentence. "—tried that already!"

She pressed her fingers to his throat. No movement yet, but she waited. She knew what she'd felt.

Some beasts had a life force that was more difficult to discern than others. There. Another flicker under her fingers. This seemed more akin to cold-sleeping cave trolls than to actual death.

Mazikeen stood up. She considered keeping the knowledge that he still lived to herself. They gave her the right to dispose of the body, no one would know. She could secret him away, keep him for herself. But then, she'd be as good as exiled, the angel's existence a necessary secret.

But maybe she could negotiate to keep the angel for herself. Anilith no longer valued him.

Traz leaned in to inspect what Mazikeen found so interesting. "What? Is something wrong with it?"

"He's not dead."

Traz grimaced and stepped back. "Impossible. It lacked response, it didn't breathe. It has not moved or drank or slept since we secured the door. Nothing could survive that."

"The fire in him has dimmed to embers, but blood still moves," she snarled, wanting to wrap her fingers around the useless warrior's throat, but she needed this fool alive.

"What do we do?" Traz asked, eyeing the body on the ground.

"I claim him for myself. Inform Anilith I'll take charge of the living-angel."

"That is the Soverain's choice, not yours to demand," Traz growled, and her hand drifted yet again to the handle of her blade.

Mazikeen stood her ground. Only a weakling needed to resort to such threats. "Anilith knows that I am Elder to her, a fellow daughter of Lilith. I follow the order of Anilith because I choose to. Go. Speak to the Soverain. Return with supplies for healing."

"Don't order me around like a whelp." Traz's tone turned plaintive, and Mazikeen knew then that she had won.

"Get the seal of Anilith. She announces it to the entire collective or I walk away."

Traz bowed her head and scurried out.

He was alive. Mazikeen smiled viciously, baring her teeth. She would win this. Samael would be hers before the winds blew. With patience, she believed she could save him. She had considered Mother's words of prophesy many times while she'd been away. The living-angel was worth far more than a renewable feather-harvest, and no one else could see it.

As soon as Traz's footsteps faded, Mazikeen crouched next to the angel again. "Samael, I will unbind you." She waited a moment before proceeding.

Mazikeen knelt beside the still figure and tried to work the gag loose, but the knot was too tight. She used her blade to cut it off. His mouth closed, but he made no voluntary movement. Next, she unwound the binding from his limbs and tucked the cord away in her pouch.

The bindings hadn't dug into his flesh as they had in the lake of fire. Did that mean he hadn't struggled? Had they beaten the fight out of him before binding his limbs? She ran soothing hands along his arms and legs and tried to adjust him into a more comfortable position. His joints resisted the movement, but she persisted until she had him laying stretched out on his side. His chest moved, rewarding her efforts.

He had no open wounds, but there were many marks on his damaged skin that had not been there before. She burned with fury as she examined the scars and injuries.

Mazikeen tried stretching Samael's wings, but they were stiffer than his limbs, barely moving at all before the joints froze. She stopped. His breathing started to grow more regular, shallow breaths becoming deeper and more frequent.

They claimed he'd been like this for longer than a sprog cycle. How had he lived without sustenance or breath for so long?

His temperature was still icy. A roaring fire, warm food and drink, and blankets would help wake him up, but for now, she unclasped her large, loose, outer cloak and draped it around him. She would not parade him through the city, naked like a captive.

Traz's continued absence grated on her nerves. Anilith discarded the angel as useless. What benefit would there be in denying Mazikeen's claim?

Samael's eyes drifted open. They were dull, unfocused, unmoving. The cell was lit with a single torch, and she wondered how much he could see. Did he recognize her?

"Samael." She controlled her voice to the softest of tones.

His mouth moved, and she saw his throat work to swallow.

"Samael, it's Mazikeen. You'll be mine soon."

His throat worked again, but his eyes never moved. Before she could say more, she heard footsteps.

Traz stomped into the room. "Soverain Anilith wishes to speak with you, herself." Another young female warrior trailed behind her, and Traz ordered her to guard the entrance in their absence.

Mazikeen strode to the new guard, sizing her up. The young one licked her lips and turned her face away. Mazikeen smiled, showing her teeth. She stood very near, within easy range to rip her throat out if she chose. She looked across the young warrior to Traz. "I'm sure she will guard him well from the doorway."

The guard stumbled in her haste to retreat. She stood just enough to the side to allow Traz and Mazikeen to pass, her face set on the opposite wall of the corridor. Traz snorted her displeasure at the submissive display and marched out.

A whisper from Samael stopped Mazikeen. "_Stay_."

She closed her eyes and steeled herself against acknowledging the plea. First, she must fight for him. The guard helped put the heavy bar back across the door. It took two Lilim to lift it. Samael was as safe as she could make him for the moment.

Traz and Mazikeen trudged back up the winding complicated caverns that made up the pit underneath the Spire. The air grew warmer the closer they came to the surface, and Mazikeen let out a sigh of relief to be out of the oppressive confinement below. They continued to climb. The walls here were ornately carved in patterns and battle scenes, laying out a story of victory that you couldn't help but watch play out as you made your way up. The stairs became steeper and more narrow the higher they went, both a tool of security, and to make the visitor feel small and tired when they finally made it up to the throne room.

The Soverain smiled down at her. "Mazikeen, I am pleased to see you back from the siege."

"It is good to be back in the collective." Mazikeen ground her teeth, but she showed proper respect. With luck, there wouldn't be any more useless talk, but she knew well enough not to lead the conversation with Anilith.

"Do I understand correctly that the angel is not dead?"

"Yes, Soverain. Traz informed me that in exchange for disposing of the body, you granted me whatever harvest I could glean from it." Which would have been nothing, but that was beside the point.

"And now you wish guardianship? Dead or alive, the angel is mine. I do not see the benefit to me."

"With your permission, I will take responsibility for him."

"I have handlers who can do that."

"Your handlers are the ones who nearly killed him."

The Soverain was silent and Mazikeen worried she had overstepped. Anilith watched Mazikeen with narrowed eyes, her stare so piercing that any lesser Lilim would have been quelled into a submissive, sniveling mess. Mazikeen did not waver. She was already a warrior when Anilith was nothing more than a scrawny spawn foraging on the edge of ancient ruins. As a young Dame, Anilith collected males vying for her favor, birthing her sprogs in a colony even less powerful than the collective Izuden had abandoned. But Anilith was smart and cunning and patient. She had taken the scraps afforded to her by Lilith and risen to become a power second only to their Mother.

Mazikeen stood tall and proud, head high, her eyes meeting Anilith's. She was elder and master of herself. It had always rankled Anilith that she could not intimidate her elder siblings even with all the power she amassed. A wicked smile spread across Anilith's face. She had decided her course.

She began in a conciliatory tone. "It is true you had a way with the beast that my handlers did not replicate." She stood and prowled toward Mazikeen with deadly grace. "The living-angel is entrusted to my collective. Mine, Mazikeen."

She paused for the implication to settle into a lead weight in Mazikeen's stomach.

"As you are not fully part of my collective, it will violate Mother's terms to allow you custody of the beast. I will grant you guardianship on one condition. You vow your service to me and my collective."

So, that was what Anilith wanted. Mazikeen's fealty for Samael. The image of him bound and gagged, starved, beaten, and plucked flashed before her eyes. Was saving the angel worth sacrificing her autonomy? She didn't like the hollow feeling in her chest when she considered backing down. There was everything to lose, but what could she stand to gain? A living-angel under her command... She'd seen hints of his strength, but the extent of his Power remained unknown.

Mazikeen narrowed her eyes and stood taller, puffing her chest out. "I'm not yours to command. I choose to serve you and your collective."

"If you want the angel, you will make the vow." Anilith's voice had layers of harmonics and Power in it. It was glamor magic. Mazikeen hadn't realized that Anilith knew enough of it to compel with her voice. As a true daughter of Lilith, Mazikeen was familiar with the practice but rarely wielded the talent herself. The magic was too weak to sway Mazikeen, but her own spawn? Anilith could hold any of them in thrall.

Mazikeen growled low in her throat but kept her voice calm. She must be careful in this, there was everything to lose. It wasn't too late to back out. She could leave the angel where he was, now that Soverain Anilith knew he was still alive, she would send for handlers to deal with him. He would be revived and looked after. Wouldn't he?

No. He'd been alive when they threw him down there. There were still no feathers; that was all they'd wanted from him.

There could still be Power in him, though. If there was, she'd find it. She'd wield it as her own.

The details were important when dealing with a Soverain. "If I make this vow, the living-angel will be mine in entirety. Every part of him will be mine to do with as I please. His loyalty will be to me alone. I will have full claim to the recompense of property if he is damaged or stolen by any other, and no part of him or his care can be demanded of me."

"And your full service in all other matters will be mine." Anilith's grin was full of teeth. Mazikeen had expected a greater protest over her terms. Anilith must be very sure that Samael would never be worth anything to her. She took a step forward and said, her voice brimming with Power, "Will you make the vow?"

Mazikeen worded her offer with care. "I pledge my allegiance to you and your collective so long as the angel lives and is in my custody. I will serve your commands, except for the care and control of the angel."

"I will accept that pledge. Do you offer it?" Anilith was far too eager to set Mazikeen's mind at ease, but she had decided.

"I do." Mazikeen knelt, her back straight, but her head bowed and her hands lax at her side, showing submission to her sister for the first time. "You have my vow."

Anilith circled Mazikeen then stopped in front of her. Placing a hand on the top of Mazikeen's head, she said, "I accept your vow, Mazikeen, eldest daughter of Lilith." She stepped back with a toothy smile. "The angel is yours. _You_ are mine."

Mazikeen rose from her knees and stood before her Soverain, no longer her own Lilim, tied indefinitely to another for the first time in her long existence. She kept her eyes averted as one pledged to a Soverain must, feeling bile rise in her throat as she did.

Anilith turned her back and returned to her throne, lounging as she regarded Mazikeen with a satisfied eye. Relaxing her pose in Mazikeen's presence was a surer statement of her superiority than any words she'd spoken. Finally, she flicked her fingers in a condescending gesture of largesse. "You may use the resources of the spire for the care of the angel for as long as you want them."

It was the dismissal Mazikeen had been waiting for. She backed out of the throne room, not making eye contact or turning her back on her Soverain. She stopped at the storeroom and filled two large packs with supplies she needed to care for Samael and returned below.

The young warrior saw her but kept the recognition to a minimal twitch that Traz did not notice. Traz lounged, picking at her jutting teeth with her dagger.

"The angel is mine, Traz." Mazikeen didn't growl. Her voice was casual, pleasant even, which made Traz's leap at the sound of her voice even more satisfying.

"The Soverain gave you the living-angel?"

Her tone was just short of calling Mazikeen a liar, and now Mazikeen growled at her, stepping into her space. Traz edged past her and retreated up the passageway. Mazikeen snorted. She was sure Traz kept her days filled groveling at Anilith's feet.

Mazikeen gave the young one an appreciative inspection. "You did well, warrior. How long ago was your first hunt?"

"Half a cycle ago. I regret not being in time to join the assault at Regulith. My blades remain thirsty."

"You missed nothing. There will be far more satisfying battles in your future," Mazikeen assured her, and the young warrior preened. "Help me remove the bar. You will carry my bags to my dome and wait until I dismiss you."

"Yes, Mazikeen." This would be a youngster to keep a special eye on. With the right guidance, she could be a great warrior.

They opened the door. Samael hadn't moved. His eyes were closed again, and he didn't respond when she nudged his shoulder. At least his curled position made scooping him into her arms easier. She gathered the cloak she'd wrapped around him closer as she held him. The young warrior had already hoisted the bags. "Follow."

Mazikeen strode forward; the warrior would catch up. If she allowed the youngster to walk with her, it would give her ideas above her status. Samael was light, his bones angular against his skin. Even with his awkward length, Mazikeen carried him up the spiraling passageway to the exterior of the central spire with ease. Anilith had been awaiting her appearance on the assembly balcony.

Seeing their Soverain make an appearance, the court favourites and Dames lounging in the courtyard paid attention.

"I, your Soverain, declare that I give the sole possession of the living-angel to my vowed warrior Mazikeen so long as she lives. We will not tolerate interference."

Anilith stared at Mazikeen until Mazikeen nodded her acknowledgment and bowed her head. The courtyard erupted in shouts of consternation and confusion. All eyes turned to her, everyone wishing to have gossip to spread about the new development.

Those who saw her walking, stared and followed, not too close, but they all wanted to catch sight of the dead-angel.

Mazikeen singled a smaller Lilim out of the crowd and shouted, "Whelp. Open that door flap."

The little monster looked surly, and kicked at the ash, making a cloud of it as he trod over to do as commanded. She gave him a snarl and glare that promised she'd put him in his place if he stepped out of line. He opened the flap and ran off. With a nod, she directed the young warrior to enter. She turned on the crowd, snarling at them until they backed away. Only then did she duck inside.

"Put the pack of supplies near the rug and go. Enjoy the attention you'll no doubt get for being a witness."

The young warrior followed orders, glowing in her excitement. Mazikeen lay Samael on the rug and tied the door flaps behind her.

The weight of what she had just done, the burden and risk of it all, pressed down on her. Samael was alive and free of the cell, and Mazikeen didn't know what to do next. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and moved forward. Keep moving, keep doing, and keep alive. It had worked for her as a spawn trying to survive the sulfur fields. It would carry her through this. Samael's body was cold; the first step would be to warm him. She stoked the fire, put warming stones on the hearth, lit several candles, and made the place as bright as possible for his weak eyes.

He needed food and drink, but until he showed signs of awareness, she didn't want to risk choking him. Getting him clean was a start. She collected a basin of water from the local bathing shack. It wasn't a dignified task, but she'd done the same for fellow warriors who'd been injured in battle or on hunts, and she performed it efficiently.

His body began to warm as she worked and she talked to him in a calm tone, using his name often. She'd seen Lilim isolated in dungeons for too long revert to being senseless beasts; she hoped it wasn't already too late for Samael.

His long limbs began to uncoil by the time she got him cleaned up, but he was still unresponsive. When she lifted him again to shift him to clean, dry bedding, his heart rate sped up and a new tension thrummed through his muscles. He opened his eyes. Now that he was showing more awareness, she might get him to drink. She sat him on the bedroll, pulled his back to her chest, and propped his head on her shoulder.

Mazikeen snagged the waterskin. "Drink." He had known that word well before; she hoped if any language remained it would be the first, essential commands. When he'd spoken back in the dungeon, when he'd pleaded with her to stay, had she imagined it? How much did he remember?

His hand jerked forward, but dropped back beside him. The limb twisted, fingers clenching tight before going still again. She held the waterskin to his lips and repeated the order. His lips parted, and she dripped some water into his mouth. He swallowed and opened again.

"Good, drink." She gave him several sips of water and then lay him on the bedding. He curled around her legs and made a trilling sound before pressing his lips tight together.

She pulled a fur around his shoulders and wrapped the warming stones in thin soft leathers and placed them around him to speed the warming.

It was important to be gentle with a belly too long deprived of sustenance. After a short while, she made a thin porridge of the scorched ooze fungus he had liked before and roused him. He drank more this time, and she returned him to the bed. As she switched out the warming stones, he blinked his eyes open.

She hoped he would show the same spark and intelligence that he had before, but his dull, red eyes focused on the fire and then...nothing. She scooted away, and he didn't react. It was disappointing, but he'd only just gotten his first bit of food in far too long. It was important to let him rest.

The next time she came to offer him food, his body thrummed with tension as soon as she touched him. It was easy to pull him into position, his back against her chest and his head resting on her shoulder as before. His wings were held so close to his body, and he was so thin that she had no difficulty working around them.

"Time to drink." Mazikeen lifted the waterskin to his mouth, but he pressed his lips together and turned his head. A fine tremor shot through him. "Okay." She set the water aside and waited, still holding him. If his mind had gone or diminished, it was even more important that she be patient. It was much like hunting and lying in wait for your prey to wander into view.

He tried to shift his position but had trouble moving. She didn't rush him, and eventually, his body relaxed against hers. After several heartbeats, he again strained to lean forward, hands on his knees, but the muscles in his back contracted, twisting his body upright, pulling his limbs taut. When the spasm receded, he slumped against her. She held him just enough to keep him from falling.

When the tremors abated, she again said, "Drink."

He turned his head away. She smiled. He was showing defiance. Anyone who could nurture a spark of rebellion that long in Anilith's dungeon was formidable.

As much as she appreciated his continued bravado, her intent was to revive him, not let him die. She poured a few sips of water into a cup and wrapped his fingers around it, keeping her hand around his.

His hand jerked, but she didn't allow him to dump the water, instead lifting his arm and the cup up to his mouth. She held it there. He offered no resistance to being positioned, other than the stiffness of his joints, but he kept his head turned. "Drink, Samael."

Another spasm wracked his arm and he jerked hard, spilling the small amount of water. Mazikeen held onto him with one arm, intending to refill the cup to try again.

"Maz-" The word was little more than a breath, but she recognized the effort he was making.

"Yes. Maze." She set the empty cup aside and squeezed his hand. "Maze." Then she pressed her hand to his chest, and she said, "Samael."

A sob ripped from his throat, and he twisted out of her grasp, breaking free from her hold to cover himself. Mazikeen understood the motivation to hide one's weakness and let him go.

She didn't know what to do. Was this a sign that he was broken? Or was this part of waking up? He curled up on the ground, silent, but his back shaking, and she rested her hand on his shoulder.

"Samael?"

He drew in a great shuddering breath and became still.

"Samael?"

He shivered but didn't answer. She pulled him back up, whatever had just happened, he still needed sustenance.

"Drink."

He sighed, and though his movements were halting, with her help, he brought the cup up to his lips and took a sip. After the water, she gave him a small amount of porridge, eased out from the supportive position at his back, and returned him to the bedding. He didn't move from where she put him, except to turn his face to the floor.

They would have forbidden him to look at them.

She'd seen reactions like these before in captives who had been at the mercy of their guards for too long. He had been a warrior. What had they done to him to force his cooperation?

She wanted to curse out loud about the milk-livered pit-slugs who did this, but she caught herself. Even if his mind wasn't gone, he was still too much like a beast. Loud sounds and fast movements would only make it take longer to gain his trust. It galled her nature, but she had to be gentle.

She placed her hand on his head, fingers rubbing over the ridges of his burned and scarred skin, soothing along the smooth and leathery valleys. He shuddered and pressed his face harder to the floor. Not the reaction she'd hoped for. "Samael."

Tension thrummed through him.

"Samael. You can look at me. You can talk to me."

He didn't move. She sighed. He didn't understand her. It shouldn't be a surprise that he'd be suspicious of touch, both gentle and harsh, and it only caused him unnecessary distress while this weak. She backed away and then made a point of moving about the room on her normal routine. She polished her armor and knives and swept the ash out of the corners and then out beneath the door flap. Throughout her activity, she tried not to pay attention to him, again calling on her instinct for putting a skittish beast at ease. It wasn't until she sat at the fire to reheat the porridge that he seemed to relax. The shelter was too warm for her taste, but he was still so cold, so she added more fuel.

He watched her; that was a positive sign. "Samael. Time to eat."

He turned his face away.

She grit her teeth. Patience, Mazikeen. Remember, you wanted this. She set the cups down and pulled the covers to his waist. She expected him to resist being moved, but he tried to cooperate. Another muscle spasm twisted through him and he curled up, unable to do anything more until his muscles relaxed.

When the spasm abated, he remained curled up on the floor, exhaustion taking over. Mazikeen sat beside him and eased him up and toward her. His limbs jerked at the unexpected movement, but he allowed it. She arranged him into a stable sitting position with his knees drawn to his chest.

Mazikeen prepared two cups of watered-down gruel and a bag of thistles. She placed the cups between them. "Eat."

He didn't move. She moved his head up, off his knees to look at his face but he refused to look directly at her. This needed to stop. Whoever had caused this deserved to be devoured alive by putrid slime beetles.

"Look." She waved her gruel in front of him. His eyes focused on it. Good.

"We eat." She took a sip. He hadn't moved aside from the constant tremors wracking his limbs, so she put his cup in his hand. "Eat." His movements were jerky but he raised it to his mouth and sipped at it.

"Good?" The whisper was so quiet that she wasn't sure she heard it until he gave a quick glance toward the bag of thistles.

She pulled one from the bag and held it out. "You are doing good."

His fingers twitched, but he didn't dare to take it. She put the thistle in his hand. He closed his fingers over it, holding it tight before popping it in his mouth.

Fury at those who dared to hurt him seethed within her. She drew in a slow breath, forcing her outward appearance to remain calm. "Eat." She motioned to him and said it again.

This time he tipped the cup until the last drops had drained. She slid her cup over, offering him her small portion. He looked at the cup. "I eat?"

The extra word startled her. How much language had he kept after all this time? She nodded and stayed as still as possible. "Yes, you eat."

His arm was working more smoothly with each task, but by the time he had finished her cup, he was swaying in place and blinking with exhaustion. "Sleep now. You're safe here." She made him lay on the bedding again. This time he fell asleep instantly.

She would dress him like a proper Lilim. Taking out her leatherworking materials, Maze laid out the tools she would need. She didn't indulge in the decorative flourishes that the leatherworking artisans added to the items they made. Functionality was her goal. She cut a three-finger width strip of leather from a heavy, stiff hide with her round leather knife. She shaped the ends and then rounded the edges with the forked beveling tool. Burnishing was the next step. It was a relaxing task that she enjoyed, pressing the bone to the leather and sliding it across, again and again, until the strap was flexible and the thickness even.

When she finished, she judged it time to feed the angel again. She filled the cups and took them over to the bedroll. He flinched and opened his eyes when she nudged his shoulder. "You need to eat and drink more." She backed away and left him to feed himself without her help or further urging.

Mazikeen returned to her leather and considered whether to dye the leather or leave it bright and pale. She pulled the ash-colored dye and soft sponge mushroom from her kit. He didn't need to be any easier to spot, and the contrast between the pale leather and his red skin was too great. The dye went on evenly, and after a few applications, it was coated. She set the belt aside to dry while she worked on the loop. It went through all the same processes but was more tedious because of its small size. The belt was ready to be oiled when she had finished the loop. Judging his breadth by how he'd felt in her arms, she punched holes in one end of the belt with an awl and used her small knife to make a slice in the center of the other end to fit the pin-style buckle. It wasn't fancy and was less reliable than her buckle with the hinged center pin, but it sufficed for now.

She admired her handiwork. It was plain, but good, sturdy work. The belt was very important as the clout was threaded through it, the leggings tied to it, pouches and knife sheaths attached to it. Without a good quality belt, a warrior might as well be naked.

The next time she looked up, Samael was sitting and watching her. He averted his gaze as soon as he noticed her watching him, but Mazikeen smiled, glad to see him taking an interest.

She picked up a scrap piece of hide she'd discarded to the side and tossed it low across the floor.

The leather landed beside his leg, making him twitch. He glanced at it and then up at her. Mazikeen turned her head away to watch from the corner of her eye. Samael looked to her before reaching for it, hands still trembling with muscle spasms and his weakened state, but he took it.

He ran his fingers over and over the soft leather, and she pretended not to notice how his eyes rarely strayed from her as she continued her work.


	6. Why and Wherefore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, two steps back. Mazikeen needs to find out what happened to Samael in the Spire.

Image:

[ ](https://eastwesthomeisbest.tumblr.com/)

Mazikeen kept a small fire burning, both for warmth and for extra light. For the first hand of winds, spasms wracked the angel’s every movement. He jerked and twitched and spilled any container more than half full. When he woke, she gave him her waterskin to drink from and made plenty of scorched ooze porridge for him to eat. He ate, and he slept, and that was enough.

In the brief windows of time when he regained consciousness, he watched as she worked on molding a new piece of armor. She talked to him as she worked. It was more akin to talking to herself, but it was better than no one talking at all.

The longer he stayed awake the more irritable he became. He was still too weak to do more than sit up and she suspected boredom was starting to set in. One ashfall he frowned at the cup of watered-down porridge but drank it. He drained the waterskin, but he didn’t lie back down. Mazikeen waited. This was new. It was about time he did more than sleep and eat. His hands clenched and unclenched. He shifted restlessly and darted quick glances around the room. Was he tired? Was he hungry? Whatever he wanted, Mazikeen was ready for him to speak up.

She pointedly ignored him and went back to sharpening her leatherworking tools as he continued to fidget and worry at the scrap piece of leather. He'd held onto it since the first day, as if it was far more precious than the piece of trash it was.

It took him at least half a finger of ash to work himself up to it. “No more to eat,” and waved at the fire.

“Are you hungry?”

He stared at the fire, concentrating on finding the words he wanted. “No porridge.” 

“You want more porridge?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“More, not-porridge.”

“You’re tired of eating scorched ooze porridge?”

His wings twitched as she spoke, but he nodded. “Yes. Tired of eating scorched ooze porridge.” He sounded out the last part of the sentence, repeating until it sounded right. When he finished speaking, he held still, as though bracing himself for a blow.

She set aside her work. “Do you want meat?”

“Meat?” He grimaced even saying the word. “No meat.” He shook his head and glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

“How about yellow grim-moss and blistering tongue stew?

“Tongue?” he asked, sticking out his own tongue and looking disgusted.

“No, it just looks like a tongue.” She dug into a jar on the shelf beside the hearth and held out a piece of bright red fungus for him to inspect.

He reached for it cautiously, twice recoiling before accepting the morsel from her hand. She kept him in her side vision as she boiled a pot of water. “Throw it in.”

He sniffed the fungus before leaning forward and tossing it in the pot. Mazikeen added several more types of fungi, let them boil, and stirred them together. It congealed into a lumpy paste, and she scooped it into a bowl and passed it to Samael.

“Good?”

He dipped a finger and took a taste. “Yes. Many good.”

“Very. It is very good,” she corrected him, and he repeated the sentence. A thrill went through her. 

He murmured some trills to himself and ate the rest of the paste in the bowl. She filled his bowl again, and a ghost of a smile crossed his face. 

During the next two hands of winds, his sleep became more regular; he slept when she slept, and woke at the same time. His vocabulary grew beyond simple questions like, are you hungry, are you thirsty, are you tired? He asked to try new foods and requested favorites. He continued trying to stand up, and was able to take a couple of steps at a time if Mazikeen helped him. 

But, he shut down if Mazikeen asked about the Spire.

His limbs remained stiff and sore and though progress was slow, he worked at stretching. The jerky movements in his arms became more fluid, and he could hold a cup without shaking, but his legs were worse. He still couldn’t coordinate his muscles to get far on his own. Mazikeen helped him get around with her arm supporting his weight. 

It was a relief he hadn’t lost his stubborn streak. No matter how much pain he seemed to be in, he kept trying to stretch and move.

The bedroll beside the fire was where he spent most of his time, and when Mazikeen grew tired, she lay down beside him. The first time she woke up with him pressed against her side he shifted and pulled away, but the more they slept together, the closer he stayed. He was skittish about noises and quick movements, but when she lay down, he always lay with her. 

Samael ate through her entire stock of non-meats. The fungus was meant for seasoning, not as complete meals. She handed him a bowl of chopped purple jellydisc, the last non-meat she had. He picked up one of the quivering lumps, tasted it, and nearly gagged.

“You’ve eaten everything else. I have to get more food.”

He cocked his head at her in a way she’d become familiar with when he was working at figuring out words. After a few moments, he narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “No.”

She smirked. “No?”

He drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Not good, Maze,” He made a walking motion with his hand and swept it away.

Did that mean he was afraid she wouldn’t come back? Leaving and returning would do more to prove her permanence than mere explanations would. She put the axe handle she’d been carving for trade into her pack, hefted the large sack full of jars she wanted filled, and firmly said, “I’ll be back soon.”

Samael crossed his arms and glared at her as she walked out.

So be it.

The market was quiet. Other Lilim eyed her with interest. Everyone wanted to know about the angel, but she ignored them. It took less than a knuckle of ashfall to find what she wanted and return home. Samael looked away as she entered the dome, as if to show he hadn’t been watching the door flap. She didn’t rub it in his face, and he didn’t hold it against her. She considered it a win.

Mazikeen made frequent short trips outside her dome after that: to the market square to buy provisions and extra hides, to the training arena to spar, to the commons to couple. She left and returned, again and again, until Samael merely nodded acknowledgement when she announced she would be back later.

Lilim loved gossip and stories, and her neighbors and acquaintances grew bold the more she rejoined collective life.

“Is the angel still alive?” 

“Has he regrown his feathers yet?”

Squee, a short male nest-minder who specialized in harassing whelps in the lanes, scooted up beside her. If she’d seen him coming, she would have ducked behind the knife-sharpening stall. He bounded to her side and made soft grunting noises. “Esteemed Warrior Mazikeen, how is the dead angel?”

“Living-angel,” Mazikeen corrected, and often that was enough to satisfy the nosy inquirers. They'd claimed their bragging rights by having spoken to her and would then leave her alone. But no, not Squee. 

He flicked his tongue and grinned, his sharpened teeth looked like they were long overdue for refiling. “Where do you keep it? What does it do?” 

“I put him in a trophy jar and keep him on the shelf.” 

Squee’s eyes widened, and his mouth formed a perfect ‘o’. “Really?”

“No, Squee. Go away.”

“I heard it had spines, sharp and deadly.”

“Yes, and poisonous. Go away.” 

He nearly hopped on the spot. “How do you know it won’t kill you in your sleep?” he asked, but she was already walking away.

The hide trader measured out the length Mazikeen asked for and leaned across the counter. “You’ve got the angel holed up in your dome.”

Everyone knew that. “Yep.”

“Did you hear about the time the angel escaped?”

No, she hadn’t heard that one. “Tell me.”

“The Spire guards tell it best. This was after they put it down below in Anilith’s dungeon. All five of them assigned to angel-watching, they all swear that door was locked, but one of them must have forgot. The angel snuck out, attacked his guards and made a go of it. Against all odds he made it right up the cavern tunnels, and that place is known for its twists and turns, innit?”

“No one has ever escaped the dungeon,” Maze said in wonder.

The leather trader snickered. “It didn’t escape far enough, though, did it? It got all the way up, outside even. And what did it get for its trouble? High wind. Stupid thing nearly choked to death before collapsing. Oh, you shoulda heard the stories of what they did to it after that. I had a dame tell me she could hear the wails all the way up the spire. Can you imagine?” He chuckled with delight.

Mazikeen didn’t want to imagine it at all.

“How do you keep it from escaping?” the trader asked next.

Mazikeen answered as little as possible and used her fists with the few who didn’t take the hint.

When she got back to the dome, she tossed Samael the entire bag of thistles she’d bought. Save them or eat them, she didn’t care what he did, but he deserved far more. 

* * *

Samael started Izuden’s old game to learn more words. He pointed to things and repeated the words as Mazikeen named them. Her frustration level rose when he focused on saying them perfectly. She didn’t care that he blended the syllables or phrases together, or if certain sounds didn’t come out right. Wasn’t it enough that he was learning them? 

It was on his fifth try to pronounce _javelin _properly that she quit.

“We’ve been at this since the wind calmed. You’re tired. Rest.”

In protest, he flopped down on his back, wings flattening out on either side.

“Go to sleep.”

“Not tired,” he mumbled back and tossed an arm over his eyes. But she was right, sleep came to him fast, and he rolled onto his side to sprawl over both their bedrolls. 

When she finished cutting the leather she was shaping, she joined him, and he didn’t even stir when she shoved him aside to get more space.

Sounds of suppressed pain woke her from her sleep. Samael was no longer on the bedroll beside her. Had someone snuck into her dome? Was Samael hurt? She saw him across the room, unsteady, but standing upright and holding on to the wall for balance.

He walked back and forth until his right knee gave out. After a few moments, he pulled himself up again by using the shelf, and began walking again. He practiced walking until his muscles shook with each step. That was enough. She understood the need to regain what was lost, but re-injuring himself through obstinance would only prolong his recovery.

She rose from her bedroll making plenty of noise to warn him she was up.

“Maze,” he said, his voice tightly controlled.

She strolled over to the shelves to retrieve bleeding cap fungus and red hair-moss, and held one arm out for him to grasp if he wanted to. He had a warrior’s heart. She wouldn’t shame him by openly suggesting he needed help.

He took her arm, and they walked back to the bedrolls where he sank down with a relieved sigh. She placed the bleeding caps in the ashes and set water to boil. From the corner of her eye she saw how he grimaced and rubbed at his legs. She made a twist of the hair-moss and held it at the edge of the fire until it caught, and puffed on it, holding the smoke in her lungs before letting it out. An easy feeling spread in her limbs.

Grinning, she passed it to Samael. “You’ll like this.”

He took it with a skeptical look and sniffed the burning end. “The same?” he pointed at the hair-moss she’d added to the water for tea.

She laughed. “It’s stronger when you smoke it. Your legs will feel better.”

He examined it, shifted, grimaced, and took a drag, holding his breath longer than Mazikeen could hold hers. Mazikeen stretched and pinched the herb from his fingers and took another drag before passing it back. She wished she’d had some to give him during the first winds when the spasms had twisted him up.

He began his trilling, warbling sounds, and then chuckled. She looked over at him and caught him gazing at her with glassy eyes. More of the sounds fell from his mouth as he relaxed, head and shoulders falling back on the furs. He lolled his head toward her, making more trills and tittering. She plucked the still burning moss from his lax fingers and took a long draw on it. He chuckled more, and despite the monstrous burned skin, he was beautiful.

They smoked and laughed. During the ashfall, he remembered how to use words again, and he mislabeled everything in the house, snickering each time she said no. When the winds began again, and he was snoring, lying across both their bedrolls, she knew she’d have to buy more hair-moss for another ashfall.

* * *

The continuous inactivity was mind numbing and Mazikeen longed for action. How the nest-minders took care of helpless sprogs without going crazy with inaction was beyond her. Samael wasn’t a sprog, but there wasn’t much he did on his own. It was, however, an opportunity to catch up on her leatherwork and armor projects.

As she carved around the shell, she nicked a piece she hadn’t meant to and cursed, hitting her fist on the ground to vent her frustration. 

Samael tensed, staring at her until she looked at him, and he quickly averted his gaze. Mazikeen sighed and moved closer, reaching her hand out to touch his shoulder, but he flinched away.

“This.” She held up the shell and showed him the damage she’d done on her piece.

He nodded, but she wasn’t sure if he believed her or not.

So, she distracted him. “Do you remember the number words?” she asked and held up her fingers. 

He nodded and said the words as she prompted him, and when she held out a thistle and dropped it into his hand, he quickly ate it and lay down, facing away from her. 

He refused to interact for a finger’s ash, but finally, he sat up. “Maze.”

“What?”

He grit his teeth and pressed his lips tight. Rather than use words, he reached out and took her arm, guiding her hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“Are you going to tell me what you want or not?”

“Touch?” he asked.

She still didn’t understand. 

He released a long breath. “I don’t want…” He paused and frowned deeply. Instead of words, he acted out the way he had reacted earlier, pretending to flinch away. He placed his hand over hers on his shoulder. “You are not bad. No more bad…” He searched again for the word he needed, and Mazikeen didn’t rush him. He tapped his head. “No more bad here.”

“You want me to touch you?”

He nodded. "_You_ won't hit."

“But they hit you, and you expect it?”

He didn’t respond in words, but his eyes told her everything she needed to know. 

He’d spent three sprog cycles at the mercy of Anilith’s ‘handlers’. 

She left her hand on his arm until he pulled away and reached out to him often through the rest of the ashfall. Later, when she lay down on her bedroll, he curled around her, and they fell asleep intertwined. 

* * *

A hand of ashfalls later, Samael started to backslide. Mazikeen knew how wildly Samael’s moods could change, but this was different. After deliberately initiating physical contact, now he wrapped a soft sleeping fur around his shoulders and over his wings and refused to let her near him at all. 

He paced the room, agitated and skittish. She prepared food for them, and he finally stopped to eat. He crouched and balanced on his toes, one hand holding the cup and the other clutching the fur. Mazikeen stood abruptly, and he startled so hard, he lost his balance and fell. Fortunately, there’d been nothing left in the cup to spill, but then he was back up and pacing.

“Samael?” She looked pointedly at the cushion by the fire.

He pulled the fur tighter around himself. “Maze,” he answered back, echoing her tone and refused to follow her unspoken suggestion to sit down.

She shrugged and continued to work, but the constant motion at the edge of her vision and the slap of his bare feet was getting to her. He sped up, and that was the end of her tolerance. “Samael, sit down!”

He dropped to the floor mid-stride and glared. She snorted and rolled her eyes.

Eventually, he got up and walked over to the fire. He eyed her like she was a coiled serpent as he sat down, and even then, he didn’t sit still. The fur stayed clasped tightly around his shoulders, but he shifted and squirmed.

“Are you ill?” she asked him.

“No.”

So what was it then? She got up and rummaged through her small box of pins and fasteners. She could feel his eyes following her. She strode back to him and he didn’t move from his seat, but he leaned away, dodging her first attempt to grasp the furs. She stopped, exasperated and furious with Anilith and everyone else responsible for damaging him. She held up the pin. It was much like the one in his belt, only larger.

“I’m going to make holes in the fur, so you can pin it on and free your hands.”

He nodded and held still as she cut the leather. He didn’t offer to take the fur off, and she had to lean over him at an awkward angle. She stepped away when she finished and checked the fit.

He let go of the ends and the cloak stayed in place.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

Single-word answers were all he’d offer. She sat down beside him. All these strange mood shifts, the agitation, she knew it stemmed from his time in the Spire. Maybe if she had a better idea of what he went through, she could do more.

“Samael, I need to know what happened after I left for war-harvest.”

His jaw clenched, and he stared steadily into the fire. “No.”

“Samael, we can’t stay in this dome forever.”

He shut down.

She couldn’t get anything else out of him the rest of the ashfall. He wasn’t even interested in food. He slept as far away as he could get. When she woke, he had rolled onto the stone floor and was shivering. He stayed wrapped in the fur. This backward progress was discouraging, and she hated that she didn’t know what to do about it. 

She needed answers. If he would not tell her, then she’d find someone else who would.

Izuden should have been watching out for him. The young Dame had been accepted into Anilith’s circle after she'd shown she'd gotten a sprog from Varun, and still lived in the Spire. If there were answers to be had, Mazikeen knew that was where she needed to start. 

The high wind dragged on, but as the gusts began to slow, Mazikeen woke early and dressed formally in her battle gear. Samael eyed her warily.

“I’m going out.” Mazikeen gave him a moment. Would he say something?

He rose and stood staring at the designs etched into her breastplate. “Out? Away far? Many long?” He grumbled and cleared his throat and started again. “Many ashfalls? Long time?”

She looked down at her armor and realized…she’d been dressed like this during her last visit with him in the Spire before leaving for the assault on Regulith. “No, only one ashfall.”

He crossed his arms and stepped back. “Where?”

“I need to talk to someone in the Spire, but I’ll be back before the wind rises.” Mazikeen placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched and pulled away. 

She needed answers, and she would not get them standing here. He returned to sit beside the fire and refused to look at her as she left. 

The Spire loomed in the center of the walled collective, a spiraling tower crafted to intimidate. The guard at the gate recognized her and stepped aside. She didn’t spare him a second glance. She knew where to find Izuden.

The young Lilim lounged in the communal room, the main luxury area covered with giant furs and back rests, where most of the minor dames collected to share gossip and contrive new schemes. Mazikeen spotted her instantly-- straddling a content warrior male.

“Izuden.”

The look on Izuden’s face at being interrupted was fearsome until she recognized Mazikeen. She masked the irritation behind a genial smile and dismounted her current coupling partner. 

“How nice of you to visit, Mazikeen. Your prowess at the siege reached my ears many times while you were away.” Izuden kept her tone formal as she eyed the other dames in the room with suspicion.

“We need to talk.”

Izuden tilted her chin up. “We do. Come, I have a place where we will not be interrupted.” She guided Mazikeen through the communal room and out a door to a small balcony overlooking the Collective. Lights twinkled from various fires lit below and Mazikeen took her time enjoying the view. Beyond the walls, the steadily falling ash obscured everything. 

“I did not think he lived,” Izuden began, forgoing all pretense now that they were alone. They both knew what Mazikeen was here about.

“You said you’d watch over him.” 

“What was I to do?” Izuden defended. She circled the room and peeked out the doors to ensure there were no eavesdroppers. “Traz took over supervising his circumstances after you left.”

“Traz? What right did she have to claim the position?”

“She’s favored. That was all she needed. They limited my visits. The guards refused to interact with him. Even with the improvements you negotiated, it was obvious he wasn’t thriving. The more isolated they kept him; the worse things became. Samael claimed the solitude was worse than physical discomfort.”

“He told you that?”

“Perhaps with simpler words, but he was learning fast. No one would listen to me, and especially not to him. If only he’d been more valuable. But his wings stayed the same as when you dragged him out of the lava. It got really bad when Anilith demanded a feather and he defied her.”

Mazikeen felt ill.

“Your suggestion to treat him like a spawn didn’t pan out, so Traz recruited a beast-minder to gain control.”

“Who is this beast-minder?”

“Tiraq. He cut off all contact. I arranged updates through a guard who wished to couple with me, but I could no longer visit. I did everything I could.”

“You could have stood up to them, been Lilim.”

“My reputation was at stake. You should have seen the looks the other dames gave me for interacting with him as much as I did. I am not an intimate of the Soverain; I have no authority here.” Izuden argued. “I swear to you I tried. Even the sprog I birthed—a beautiful little male with my horns and his sire’s chin—wasn't up to their standards."

“Where do I find this Tiraq?”

This time Izuden grinned. “In the dungeon. That was his reward for failing Soverain Anilith.”

Mazikeen looked out over the Collective again, noting the depth of ashfall that had fallen. There was plenty of time before the winds picked up.

She nodded to Izuden and turned to leave, but Izuden caught her arm.

“It’s true Samael lives? He survived?”

“He lives. Whether he survived is yet to be seen,” Mazikeen informed her coolly, and jerked free. She had another interview to do.

She made her way down the Spire to the caverns. Faced with inciting her wrath, the guards did not dare refuse her admission. “Take me to Tiraq.”

They obeyed, moving into the caverns without a word. She walked at their side. Tiraq's cell door was barely two levels below. This was nothing like the barred entrance of the cell they confined Samael in. This was a simple lock and required only a flick of a latch to gain entry. She left the door open behind her and entered.

The air was vile and stagnant with ash. The male Lilim lay curled up in the corner and lifted his head when she came in. His emaciated form shuddered as he coughed, the spasms in his chest so deep Mazikeen thought he’d dislodge a rib.

“Mazikeen?” he wheezed, attempting futilely to sit up. 

Mazikeen smiled, pleased that he recognized her so easily.

She crouched beside him. “What did you do to the angel?”

Tiraq shuddered and licked his lips. “I did my duty. The beast was out of control—”

“He’s mine now,” Mazikeen answered. “Go on, tell me how you trained him.”

“Yours? You mean for harvest?” Tiraq whimpered and miserably tried to hide his head. “It—”

“_He_,” Mazikeen growled.

“Soverain Anilith ordered me to take charge. It didn’t help that that dame had been teaching it to mimic speech. I did what anyone would do with a feral beast in need of trimming.”

Mazikeen fumed. She knew exactly what he meant. She ran one finger down the side of Tiraq’s face, and said, “Tell me. I want to hear it from your lips.”

He whimpered. “The normal things. It was obstinate. We strung it up. Thank the above it came with that cord so we could secure it properly." 

"Strung up how?" Mazikeen's eye twitched with the effort of not annihilating this worm. 

"Wrapped that cord around his wings and hung him from the ceiling, all displayed like. That’s how it’s done with the flying gutrenders when we catch’em to milk their venom. Let’em dangle 'til they tire themselves out. Took a while for it to get hungry and weak. Even then it took a bunch of us to hold it down long enough to get those feathers. Those things are nearly impossible to pull out. Bled like a geyser too." He waved his arms to demonstrate the blood flow and chuckled.

Mazikeen shoved his shoulder hard and said, "Get on with it."

Tiraq cleared his throat and leaned further away from her, almost lying down again. His simpering voice grated on her nerves. "I had no idea harvesting would be such hard work. But it's like any beast. Hurt 'em enough, and they'll submit. It fought like a cornered rat, I tell you, even starved like that. It all went better after I figured out the trick of wrapping that cord around its neck. Whenever it struggled it would choke itself out. That’s the only way I finally got it docile enough to be handled—” 

“Handled?” 

“The wings, you know? That was the whole purpose, wasn’t it? To harvest his feathers?” Tiraq smiled toothlessly at her. “I took care of it, too. Rewarded it when it was good. I even brought it better food. No more of that moss and fungus stuff. Good meat broth. Stupid beast didn’t even want it. But, whip a stubborn, ungrateful beast enough and it'll calm down. Took more lashes than I ever seen one live through, but we made it understand what was best for it. We made progress.”

Mazikeen spat on the floor. “But that—you did all that while they confined him in the Spire, didn’t you? What changed? Why have him brought down here?” 

“Well, it was the spines. The feathers never grew back. The Soverain demanded feathers, but the worthless beast wouldn’t obey. It taunted us with Lilim speech until we gagged it. Still tried to speak when we gave it water. Senseless thing didn't seem t'care how many times we bashed it in the face, just kept speaking, so we kept it gagged. And then, it dared grow spines instead of feathers! Had to rip ‘em out each time—hard, bloody work that, room'd look like a slaughterhouse every time." 

He laughed, the sound hanging in the rancid air. "Put the worthless thing to work cleaning up its own mess after." He laughed again, and the image Tiraq described burned itself into her mind. "It never would grow what it was supposed to. I tried everything I could, but Soverain grew impatient. She had us both taken down here to the pits. I did everything I could; it wasn’t my fault.”

A slow death in the pits was the worst way for a Lilim to die. She wouldn’t give in to her desire to crush Tiraq’s head under her heel. He deserved every moment of his slow starvation. Let him suffer as Samael had, alone in the dark. Mazikeen turned toward the door. She was done here. Samael was waiting for her at home.

“Wait, you can’t just leave me here. Tell them it wasn’t my fault it died. I did nothing wrong.”

Mazikeen spun back around. “You’re where you belong. The angel lived; he’s mine now.”

“Then, I didn’t fail. I should be a hero, not stuck down here. I’ve worked with it before. I can help you.”

She turned; expression fierce. “If you ever see Samael again, it will be on your knees, and at the end of his sword,” she answered, and walked out, locking the door securely behind her. 


	7. The Coming Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through the gale, Mazikeen saw Samael’s light, and she struggled towards it. He stood tall, his wings radiant—enough that they created an eerie bubble of light around him.

Image:

[ ](https://eastwesthomeisbest.tumblr.com/)

Mazikeen made it home before the wind grew strong enough to sweep up the ash and choke the air. Samael was pacing when she entered, but she turned from him, tied the door covering closed, and set about removing her armor before acknowledging him. She needed time to sort through everything she’d heard. Tiraq, Samael’s former handler and instrument of his torture, earned every horrible thing coming to him. Wasting away in the cavern pits was what the slime-bellied ash-licker deserved.

She vibrated with suppressed anger. Coming back to the dome while still riled up had been a mistake. Why had she ever accepted the assignment to join the assault at Regulith? None of this would have happened if she’d stayed.

Or would it have? 

How much would she have risked on Samael’s behalf? Would she have defied Anilith? Risked exile?

She'd traded her freedom for him. Wasn’t that enough to prove she could have made a difference? But she hadn’t done that for him, had she? It was about the potential she’d seen in him, in controlling the living angel and his divinity.

Mazikeen grabbed the closest item on hand, a bowl-shaped shell, and hurled it across the dome. It shattered against the wall. 

Samael took a startled step back, pacing abandoned. Mazikeen’s nerves were on fire. It wasn’t him she wanted to lash out at, but he was here. “What are you looking at?”

His gaze traveled from the shell bits scattered on the floor and back to her. “You’re meet at the Spire was not good?”

“I left you there.”

It didn’t take him long to catch onto what she meant. “You came back.” 

“I delivered you to them,” she yelled. “Don’t you get it?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“I did this to you.”

He laughed and looked up at the ceiling. “You didn’t. Not you.” 

She couldn’t. It was too much. Mazikeen spun on her heel and walked out. She went to the market and bought the strongest fermented drink she could find and sat in the commons drinking. She ignored everyone who stopped, even a fellow warrior intent on finding someone to couple with. Mazikeen wasn’t interested. It had all started with the ashfall the angel fell. What if she never went to claim harvest? Varun would have gotten there first, and none of this would be her problem. She wished she’d never met Samael. 

She wished she’d kept him for herself instead of bringing him to Anilith. 

She stayed in the commons drinking until the winds were so strong the ash turned the air grey and burned her lungs. Lilim rushing back to the safety of their domes looked away as they passed her and she clumsily rose to her feet. Either she needed to find shelter or go home. 

The door ties were too tight for her fumbling fingers to grasp. Frustration at everything rushed through her. Could she not do anything right? And then there he was. Samael reached out and dragged her inside before securing the flap closed again. Mazikeen lay on her back on the dome floor, staring up, eyes watering from the ash.

Samael’s pitted, scarred, burnt-up face stared down at her with glowing eyes. “Don’t do this.” His tone was pleading, at odds with the flare of his eyes. 

She squinted up at him. “Do what?”

“Don’t leave again.” 

Mazikeen barely caught what he said, but it was followed by what sounded like something about scale-sided maggot suckers…just before pulling her upright and hooking his arms behind her shoulders and under her legs. Mazikeen grabbed onto Samael’s neck as he carried her across the dome to the bedroll and lowered her down.

“Why can’t you stand? Are you sick?”

She laughed and shook her head, no. “You put your sandals on.”

“I did.”

“Were you going to come look for me?”

“Go to sleep, Maze.”

And she closed her eyes and did.

…

Mazikeen woke up with a raging pit fiend squatting on her head. Or, it felt like there was.

Pounding invaded her senses. She assumed it was the internal throbbing after affects of the fermented drink until Samael crouched at her side and shook her shoulder. “Maze,” he whispered. “Someone’s here.”

“I hear it,” she groaned as she sat up. “Stay out of sight.” He rolled his eyes and stood to the side of the door where nosy visitors wouldn’t see him. He still had the cloak pinned securely over his back and wings.

Mazikeen opened the flap enough to peer out, and Izuden beamed at her from the other side. Mazikeen scowled. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to see Samael.” Izuden’s smile looked unnatural, all mouth and no eyes. Mazikeen regarded her suspiciously.

“What if he doesn’t want to see you?” Rather than open the door, she looked over at Samael. “You remember Izuden?” 

He nodded, eyes darting to the door flap as though trying to see through it. She knew Izuden’s rendition of what happened in the Spire now, but she knew nothing about Samael’s side of things. “She wants to see you.” 

He snorted. “I’m not deaf, Maze.” Samael tugged at his clothes to straighten them and stepped into view. Mazikeen interpreted that as a yes. It only occurred to her later that she’d never asked what _he _wanted.

Mazikeen pulled back the flap to let Izuden in. What did a Dame, used to the opulence of the Spire, think of a simple warrior’s dome? Izuden dressed in the modern fashion of the Spire, displaying as much skin as possible between supportive leather wraps dyed in bright colors. Even her sandals were crafted to showcase the shape and contours of her feet. Of course the dames of the Spire wouldn’t consider the need for protective coverings; they never exposed themselves to the dangers warriors did.

But Izuden wasn’t interested in Mazikeen’s decorating. She turned to Samael and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Samael, I thought you were dead.”

Mazikeen tensed and placed herself between Samael and Izuden. 

Samael kept his eyes averted from the dame, and when Izuden took a step forward, he took a step away.

“When Soverain Anilith demanded the feather, I was horrified.” Izuden stepped closer. 

Mazikeen expected Samael to shut down, like he did with her whenever she mentioned the Spire. He flicked his gaze toward Mazikeen, the cloak moved as his wings twitched underneath. 

“Issiden-”

“Izu-den,” the dame sounded out.

Whatever he’d been about to say was lost as he took a breath and carefully sounded out her name again. “Izuden.”

“You should have let Anilith have what she asked for. Nobody wanted to hurt you, but what were they supposed to do after you resisted the guards like that? They were just doing their jobs. Of course there were consequences.”

Samael looked directly at Izuden. “I tried—” 

The dame interrupted him again. “You belong to Soverain Anilith. You were supposed to follow her demands.”

Mazikeen reached forward to grab Izuden’s arm but Izuden dodged to the side and out of Mazikeen’s reach.

No way. The dame was not going to enter _her _dome and insinuate Samael had deserved what they’d done to him. Mazikeen opened her mouth to tell the dame to shut up, but Samael spoke first.

“I know, I know what they want,” he answered Izuden. He rubbed at his forehead and started to pace.

Izuden let out a long sigh. “I tried to warn you, remember?”

“No.” He shook his head, refusing to follow Izuden’s narrative. “No, you didn’t warn me. You bring…you _brought_ them. The guards. You _let _them.”

“They would have done it whether or not I was there. I tried to make it easier for you. Do you even know how bad you made me look? I told them you’d listen to me. Why didn’t you listen?”

That was enough. This time Mazikeen didn’t let Izuden dart out of the way, she grabbed the dame’s shoulder, yanked her aside, and pushed her up against the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of her.

“What do you want with us?” Mazikeen snarled. “Did Anilith send you?”

“I needed to see for myself. I heard about your vow to our Soverain. Why did you do it? What worth can he have to you?”

“You know what they did to him,” Mazikeen snarled, shaking Izuden against the wall. “They had him tied up and gagged so he couldn’t even breathe. For how long?”

“He tried to escape, Mazikeen,” Izuden countered. “He attacked Spire guards and ran out into the wind. The guard who rescued him nearly died. There had to be consequences, and he was already worthless.”

“No, he’s not!” 

“He should have obeyed the Soverain’s order,” Izuden insisted.

“You should have protected him,” Mazikeen snarled, but she already knew the lie in her words. It shouldn’t have fallen to Izuden. Mazikeen was the one who had failed. 

Izuden glanced to the side where Samael stood watching. “He’s not Lilim.” 

“He’s mine now. No one will touch him, ever again.” Mazikeen raised her fist, but Samael grabbed her arm before she could deliver the blow. He pulled her off Izuden with enough force to shove her across the room.

He stood facing Izuden, his fists clenched at his sides. “I remember. You were there.”

“I wanted to help you-”

“No, no, not that. Not when they…” His wings shuddered at just the mention. “Later. I heard you.”

“Samael—”

His eyes blazed. “Under the Spire, in the dark. You came.”

“They forced me to come see you, to check if you were still alive,” Izuden countered.

“You didn’t. You didn’t come close, and you told them I was dead.” Samael looked at Mazikeen, still on the ground where he’d pushed her, and then back at Izuden. “I was not dead.”

“Not just me. Everyone thought the same. I tried to help.”

“You… I trusted you. I thought you were better.” He raised his arm. His hand was shaking, but this time he didn’t notice or care. “I thought you were good. You left me. In the dark, quiet, I was alone. No one came back!" His hand fell to his side but he didn’t drop his gaze. 

Izuden turned away this time, running out the door before he could say anything further. Mazikeen got up. She brushed off her backside and tied the door flap closed before any curious passersby could look in. She’d be surprised if there wasn’t a crowd gathered outside her dome already.

“Samael,” she said, and he backed away from her, all the way to the opposite wall. 

He covered his face with his hands, breathing hard. “Maze,” he started and then stopped. “I don’t know the word.”

“What do you want to say?”

He dropped to the floor and pressed himself against the wall with his legs drawn up. "Don’t know. Consequences?"

Mazikeen was close now, she crouched down so she was at his level. “For what? Pushing me?”

He turned his head away from her, shutting down. 

She reached forward and grasped his wrists. His eyes were still glowing. “No consequences. You stopped me from doing something stupid.”

He didn’t respond, and she let him go. Her head was still pounding from the drink she’d had the ashfall before. There was nothing she could do. He would settle in his own time.

She cooked breakfast and then lunch and finally supper while he stayed huddled in the corner. The bowl of porridge she placed next to him went untouched. After the winds picked up she laid down on her bedroll, and he stayed where he was, watching. When she woke, that was where he remained. 

“Come have breakfast.” He had to be hungry. This was a long sulk even for Samael. If she could lure him back to the fire, get him fed and rested, maybe he’d open up to her again.

When he didn’t join her, she sighed and focused her full attention on him. “Samael, what is wrong with you?”

He shuddered. “I don’t want it to be you.” 

"What?" She tried to remember everything Izuden had said, but the foolish dame had said so many things. Unless he started talking, Mazikeen couldn't know which one set him off. She held her hand out, trying for soothing. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He glared up at her, eyes flaring with intense flames. “Stay back.”

“I won’t hurt you.” 

“You say you won’t.” The words tumbled out. “She said they won’t. I thought they stopped growing back. I don’t want—" He looked at her, the fire dimmed, his eyes pleading. "Don't do it, Maze.”

“Whatever you’re hiding, I’ll find out eventually.”

He squared his shoulders. “Why am I here? Why all this?” He swept his arm at everything around them. “To take me back? I know why you go … _went …_ to the Spire. You saw. You _told _them.”

“You’re not making sense.”

He took a breath and licked his lips. “My wings.”

She edged forward until she was within arm’s reach and waited, trying to be patient. The urge to forcefully pull the cloak off him was strong. She held back. “What about your wings?”

He gave up pleading and tilted his head back, defeated. “Feathers, Maze. They’re growing back.”

Was that why he’d been holding his wings tight against his back, keeping them covered?

“Show me.”

He shifted, and his wing tips extended from under the cape. There, sticking out of the skin were small… points. She remembered what Tiraq had told her about pulling out spines and how the guards had been worried they’d grow into weapons.

He looked at her and his eyes held such depths of pain that he seemed unfathomably ancient.

“That’s not a feather,” Mazikeen said.

“These grow, make feathers.”

“The spines grow into feathers?” she asked again, giving into the urge to prod one with a fingertip. It wasn’t sharp. How had Tiraq and the guards been afraid of this? Samael flinched away, and she backed off. “These are what those toad-eyed motherless whelps were pulling out of your wings all that time?”

He pressed further into the corner, knees up and head resting on his hands, muffling his words. “I _want_ you to be different. Not like Ovtig. Not like Tiraq”

She spat on the ground at the mention of their names. “I’m not like Ovtig or Tiraq.” This was worse than she’d imagined. “Samael, what did you think I was going to do?”

“The Spire. You dressed in armor. Issiden came. I belong to Anilith. She will take them.” His voice rose in volume, “I tried, Maze. I tried to tell them. Again, and again. Every time they took, it felt like knives—deep.” His fists clenched as he ran out of words.

She held her hands out to the side, non-threatening, “Each time?” How many times had they removed them? 

He nodded. “Each time, Maze.”

“And you think I will give you back to her? So they can remove them again?”

He stared back, daring her to deny it.

She whacked his leg, hoping to snap him out of his stupid ideas. “Why would you think I’d do that to you? I had other reasons for going to the Spire. Besides, you do not belong to Anilith anymore. You’re mine. And I won’t let anyone touch you.”

“I belong to…you.” His flat tone was not the reaction she’d hoped for.

“I will not take your feathers, and _they_ will not take from me something that is mine.”

He gave her a long, deep stare, but he nodded, and gripped her shoulder. “Then I am yours.”

Mazikeen reciprocated his grip, and returned to the hearth to make breakfast, giving Samael a chance to regain his composure, and by the time his bowl was ready he resumed his place at her side. Neither of them mentioned anything more about feathers.

* * *

Over the next hands of ashfalls, Samael recovered his strength. He ate, though he still refused to consume anything he even suspected might contain meat, and he paced and paced and paced.

He startled every time someone touched her door flap, even when the winds rattled it too strongly. His vocabulary grew daily, but he sometimes paused to place his hands together in the most peculiar way, while looking up at the ceiling and reverted to the trills and warbles he made before learning how to talk. Sometimes the tone and expression was angry, sometimes it sounded like the pitiable cries of a captive begging for its life, and other times it was soft, hopeful. He sat for knuckles of ash staring up, not moving, not responding to anything she said.

The spines growing out of his wings sprouted fluffy tips, and soon, full feathers began to emerge. 

The mixture of spines and feathers looked strange, but it didn’t take long for them to fill in. They couldn’t hide inside her dome forever. When Anilith found out, would she find an excuse to break Mazikeen’s vow? Would she try to force his return to the Spire?

The wings were magnificent, such a vivid contrast to his red skin. They were constantly in motion, ruffling and shifting with his breath. Gradually, the agitation settled. He startled less. He occupied the same space as her more often. He didn’t tense up every time she left the dome to go to the market or the commons.

Recovery did not improve his mood though, and he was often surly, using all those whelp curses Izuden had taught him on the ceremonial march. When she asked him to do something, he’d refuse, testing her response. If he was a whelp, she would have knocked him to the floor and taught him respect, but she knew it was a razor-thin layer of bravado. The slightest snap from her left him brooding in silence.

The tension in the dome drove Mazikeen to spend more time at the commons. She drank and coupled and pretended everything was fine. They couldn’t continue like this. Samael couldn’t stay confined to the dome forever. And then what?

She staggered back to her dome as the winds rose, having been in a glorious, drunken brawl and the orgy of coupling that followed it. A strange light emitted from around her door flap. The air was warm outside, there was no need to build a large fire for heat. She opened the door flap and was met with a brightness so radiant she had to squint her eyes nearly closed. It wasn’t coming from her hearth. 

Samael. His wings shone with the brightest light she’d ever seen.

In full extension, the tips of Samael’s wings brushed the outer walls of her dome. When he saw her he flexed them closed, the light snuffed out as he folded them against his back.

“Samael.”

He faced her, but didn’t respond. 

Mazikeen tied her door flaps closed tightly and added a cover over that to block any of the light within from seeping out. “Show me again.”

He did. And his smile of pride over the accomplishment was almost as dazzling as his wings. 

Samael grew stronger each ashfall.

The winds outside turned. Mazikeen monitored the change with trepidation. The air felt more dense than usual, and a gust of wind nearly blew the door flap off its ties in the middle of the next ashfall. Mazikeen dropped the knife sheath she was stitching and hurried outside. The air was already thick. Coils of wind spun down from the above as the great swirling ash cloud flashed with lightening. Thunder shook the ground moments later. 

The hair on her arms stood on end. A storm. They hadn’t seen a disturbance like this since Samael fell from the above. She hauled out a solid piece of umberhulk shell. It was larger than the narrow point just inside the door, so it couldn’t be forced inside. She fixed it into place and went around the dome, preparing for the disturbance to come. Anything easily broken needed to be secured. Lilim all over the collective rushed to make similar preparations. 

Finally, she checked on Samael. She wanted to warn him before she extinguished the fire and sealed the flue. He had gone quiet when she began working. Would he be frightened? He’d never experienced anything like this before. 

But he was at the shell, his hand pressed to it, his eyes unfocused, listening.

“What’s happening?” he asked, voice distant. 

“It’s a storm. But my dome is sturdy. It won’t shake apart.”

“A storm. I felt this...dimly, before.” He waved vaguely at his wings.

“The last storm happened the ashfall after you fell from the above. I doubt you’d remember.”

Mazikeen watched him closely. Spawn and whelps were generally terrified of storms like these. She’d assumed the angel would react similarly. He was from the above, wasn’t he? She wondered what it was like up there when the storms raged below. But he sat quietly, hand still resting on the protective shell over the door. There was another loud clap of thunder, and it shook the ground and the dome. His feathers glowed with white light.

Samael reached for the fasteners holding the shell in place.

“You can’t go outside. The ash is many, many times worse in a storm.”

“It wants me.” His voice was distant like one speaking in their sleep.

“What?”

“Can’t you feel it? It’s out of balance.”

“You aren’t making sense. Going out in that is death.” She grabbed his arm.

He shook her off, pushing her away to continue working at the fasteners. Three of the five were already undone. “I have to, Maze.”

The shell was off by the time Mazikeen was back on her feet. Samael easily pushed the large bulky covering.

What part of _there’s a storm outside_ did he not understand? The winds became so strong that sometimes the very ash in the air would catch fire. They had lost entire collectives to storms like these.

“Samael! Stop.” She leapt onto his back, trying to get an arm around his throat. “I won’t let you kill yourself!”

He threw her across the room with a roar, and his wings and eyes flared so bright it dazzled Mazikeen’s vision. By the time she could see again, the door flap was slapping against the wall and ash swirled everywhere, obstructing her vision and clogging her lungs. Samael was not visible.

She grabbed a scarf off a hook on the wall and wrapped it around her head, over her nose and mouth, and fought the wind to reach the door frame. She squinted into the ash. 

Through the gale, she saw Samael’s light, and she struggled towards it. He stood tall, his wings radiant—enough that they created an eerie bubble of light around him. The ash swirled in torrents, but didn't touch him. His arms were raised overhead, and his head tipped toward the sky. His hands swept down in a fluid motion in tandem with his wings. A brilliant explosion of light and sound burst forth from where he stood.

The wind stopped.

The ash stopped.

Everything was still and silent. His wings went dark. 

Mazikeen heard doors being unfastened all around her. Samael fell to his knees and then face first into the ash. Mazikeen ran to him. She turned him over and roughly brushed off his face.

He grinned at her weakly, “I did it, Maze,” he whispered, and his eyes drifted shut. 

She shook him. “You idiot!” 

The other Lilim were streaming from their domes now. _“Did the angel do that?” “The beast has doomed us all!” “The storm is gone!” “The living-angel has power!” “It has feathers!” _

They crowded closer, hands reaching to touch or claim, Mazikeen wasn’t sure. Samael opened his eyes, but remained on the ground, his wings limp. She leaned in. “Can you walk? They’re watching, you need to show your strength.”

“I will.” His face was set in a determined expression. He rose to his feet, held his wings aloft with pride.

Mazikeen guarded his back as he went, and the chatter shifted. _“The living-angel fought the storm.” “I saw it! I saw him explode and reform!” “Explode?” “He exploded, I tell you!” “The feathers exploded!”_

Mazikeen tied the door flap down, cutting off the excitement in the lane. She heard a thump of his body collapsing behind her, but she secured the shell in place before looking at him. She was not willing to take any chances now that the other Lilim knew Samael’s feathers had grown back.

When she turned around, she froze, unable to believe her eyes.

He had gotten himself onto the bedroll and propped up on his elbow, grinning at her like when they smoked hair-moss together, but he looked up at her from a face she hadn’t seen in nearly four sprog cycles, not since dragging him from the fiery lake.

It was the face he possessed while in the lake of blue flames, and then briefly on shore. His face, before it was scorched away, transformed into the burned and scarred visage she was familiar with. This was a deceptive Power, Glamour. Lilith possessed the skill, as did all of her true children, including Mazikeen. And now Samael, the living-angel, discarded as worthless, had performed two very different acts of Power in only moments.

She stared at him, examining him as she would an unfamiliar beast on a hunt. He had true Power. Would he now turn it against the Lilim? Against her?

His smile faltered. “Maze?”

“Samael. How…. How?”

He frowned. “The storm was wrong. The realm cried out to me, and I heard. I heard it clearly, Maze. And I gave it what it needed!”

She jolted toward him and he flinched. Cautiously, she knelt at his side. A flash of fear shadowed the new, unmarked face he was wearing as she reached out and grasped his hand. She held it up in front of his eyes.

“Samael. How did you do this?”

He tugged free of her grasp and stared at his hand, both his perfect hands, and flopped onto his back. Opening and closing his fingers, touching one with the other. Then a blast of his warbles and trills tumbled out of his mouth. His hands flew to his face, touching, exploring, tangling in his black coiled hair.

“Maze! Maze, it’s me!” He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his cheek. “It feels so real.” His voice turned wistful. “Is it real?”

“It’s real if you want it to be. That’s how the Power works.”

“I have Power.” The laugh that erupted from him was melodic. “He cast me out. I am not of Him anymore. Maze, do you know what my name means? Samael, it means poison.” He rose up on his knees and took her hands. “I don’t have to stay as He made me. I can choose.” He grinned and opened his eyes again to watch his skin go from pale and smooth to red and scarred and back again. 

He sat straighter, proud, grinning even more broadly. “If I can change this,” he sneered as he gestured to his face, “then why not my name? I don’t have to be what He named me.” His wings began to emanate light again, weakly at first but growing brighter before dimming. “I’m The Light-bringer.”

Maze chuckled. “Right, so I just call you Light-bringer?” She gave him a playful shove and pulled him back down to the the bedroll. "Scoot over, Light-bringer." She didn’t understand all he said, but far more important was the Power that Sam—or whatever name he wanted to go by now—had shown. This changed everything.

He snorted and shifted to the side so she could lie beside him on the bedroll. “No, no, no, I _am _the Light-bringer. My _name _is Lucifer.”

**Author's Note:**

> BIG thanks to our artist who volunteered to make an art for each chapter! Click on eastwesthomeisthebest art at the top of the chapter to link to their tumblr. It has been awesome to see our stories come to life in their awesome works!!! 
> 
> Hi, we've enjoyed writing this story and there is a lot more story in this series we are ready to tell.  
New content will be posted on a weekly basis.  
Due to the way AO3 statistics count kudos and hits, it is difficult to tell what level of interest there is the further we go along. Motivation is everything, so please take a moment and leave us a brief line of encouragement.  
And don't forget to keep an eye out for what's coming next! 😀 (Fridays!)


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